


Keep Your Eyes Fixed on Me

by elldotsee



Series: Keep Your Eyes Fixed on Me [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coma, Coma Theory, Doctor John Watson, EMP Theory, Emotional John Watson, Eventual Happy Ending, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Hospitalization, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medical Procedures, Meta becomes fiction, Mind Palace, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 03 Fix-It, Post-Season/Series 03A AU, Reichenbach Feels, Reichenbach Reimagined, Season/Series 03, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock in a coma, Sickfic, Slow Burn, St Bartholomew's Hospital, Suicidal Thoughts, canon divergence after reichenbach, juicy medical stuff, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-03-15 22:26:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13622772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elldotsee/pseuds/elldotsee
Summary: "It's never the fall that kills you, it's the landing"Nothing to theorize here- Sherlock jumped, and all The Queen's horses might not be able to put him together again. Sherlock was gravely injured when he hit the pavement. John is by his side, but things are a bit not good for both of them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the brilliant meta work of several geniuses on tumblr as well as several beautiful pieces here on AO3, and direct quotes taken from the [ transcript goddess herself ](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/31651.html).

Keep your eyes fixed on me.

_no…_

It’s just a magic trick.

_no, don’t._

Stay right where you are- please would you do this for me?

_oh god._

Goodbye John.

_Goodbye John._

_Goodbye John…_

_NO! Sherlock!!_

I awake with a start, shouting into the blackness. Eyes wide open, I sit panting, tears streaming unbidden. **3:24am** , my watch glows mockingly. I glance over at the pale shape in front of me as I roll my head to rid my neck of kinks, swiping at my cheeks. Hospital chairs are not meant for sleeping. Exhausted, my mind wanders back to that moment again and again. My own personal hell, my worst nightmare come true and forever scorched into my brain.

_My heart dropped as the realization hit. What had he done? I saw him for a brief second, high above the world, seemingly immortal. Without conscious thought, my body propelled toward him. I heard the impact of a very mortal man meeting earth, and my knees buckled. I hit the ground and rolled over, wanting to go too, to let the blackness envelope me. But the smallest glimmer pushed me to my feet. The tiniest sparkle of hope sent me crashing forward, surging toward the crumpled mass on the sidewalk. I reached for him, overwhelmed, the weight of grief threatening to hold me down. My friend. No. Not him. Not now. I know him for real. “I’m a doctor, I’m his friend.” As our skin touched, a flicker whispered. A pulse. I allowed myself to sink down then, to breathe life into that sparkle of hope. I stared after him as they wheeled him away, the thrum of his pulse still warm on my fingers, the blankness of his eyes burned into my own._ _Please..._

Now, days later, the sparkle of hope remains; tiny but steady, beeping into the small and sterile room. Lost in my own thoughts, I look down at the pale figure in front of me, barely visible among a sea of tubes and wires. So still and quiet; a stark contrast to the enigmatic hero that I’ve come to know so dearly. I suck in a deep breath and glance towards the door. It seems safe here, to speak my thoughts freely. Trapped in my own mind for days, I've barely slept, eaten or spoke, but the unspoken words claw at my throat, threatening to burst free.

“Umm. Right. Hmmm.” I mumble, gathering courage. “You…you told me once that you weren’t a hero. There were times I didn’t even think you were human, but let me tell you this; you were the...best man, and the most human….human being that I’ve ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so…..there.” I finish breathlessly, a sob threatening to erupt. I glance about the room again. Just the two of us in this empty space. The corridor outside the room is quiet too, visiting hours long past. “I was….” I lift my hand and rest it gently on top of his arm. “I was so alone, and I owe you so much.” My voice betrays me then, cracking. My eyes fill with tears and the enormity of my confession threatens to strangle me. I stand up, needing to put distance between myself and the weight of the words that just spilled out of me. Taking another deep breath to steady myself, I hold onto the back of the chair for support. I have more to say. “Just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me.” “Just…don’t….die. Would you do…? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this!” I draw in another shaky breath, gesturing wildly around the room. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to handle all of these emotions; the guilt, the hurt, the betrayal, the grief. I'm drowning and I'm so alone again. I cover my face as sobs rack my body, allowing the weight of grief this time to swallow me. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock remembers things, and reconnects with John. Or at least, with John's fist.

It wasn’t a slow ascent into consciousness, so unlike the many times I’d experienced before. There was no dull pain, no throb behind my eyes, no colorful haze as I learned to expect when surfacing from a particularly boring night- _danger nights_ , as Mycroft started referring to them- or from an unfortunate encounter with a suspect. There was just darkness, and then light. I look around me, collecting data. Dark and light, contrasting shapes and patterns. Window. Fireplace, crackling. _Baker Street._ Home, of course.

_John…?_

I shake my head briefly _,_ then stand up and stretch, feeling surprisingly languid. Must have fallen asleep on the couch again, surely thinking about a case.

_Case?_

I look around again, gathering my senses one at a time, compartmentalizing. There, on the coffee table, a file folder. _Didn’t notice that earlier._

I turn in a slow circle. Must have been a long nap, judging from the sharp angle of the sun streaming in the window.

_Nearly dusk._ I pick up the folder and walk over to my chair, flinging long limbs unceremoniously over the leather arms. I flick through the file- children, kidnapped, Kitty Riley, Rich Brook, no- _Moriarty_. Jim from IT- an actor, snipers, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Bart’s roof, Moriarty’s suicide, the code, Lazarus - _John!_ I remember everything in a rush and close my eyes for a moment. His face when he realized, the tremble in my voice- _hope he didn’t notice-_ he was safe, right where I needed him to be to stay safe. I pick up my phone from the side table, set it down again. I’m alive, surely. My hand ghosts over the side of my head. _How_? I jumped, I remember the rush of air in my coat, my arms and legs pin-wheeling of their own accord, my body’s last fight or flight response. I struggle to recall anything after that.

My phone rings, jarring me from my analysis. _Mycroft._ I know before I even glance at the screen.

_“Brother Mine.”_ A greeting, a warning. I scowl. Always so dramatic.

_“_ Mycroft. Where’s John Watson? Is he safe?”

_“Certainly. Everyone is safe. We made sure of it.”_ Smooth and arrogant, my brother. I roll my eyes.

“Where? Where is John, Mycroft?” I sound a bit desperate. I only saw him earlier today, didn’t I? My lip curls. Sentiment will not do. Mycroft sighs, a deeply _put-upon_ sound.

“Mycroft. I need to see him.” I just need my _blogger_ back. Obviously.

“ _He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion…though I prefer the 2001.”_

A dinner reservation? A date? A bit fancier than his usual dates. This must be someone special, then.

_“…two years. He’s got on with his life”_ Wait. What?

“Two years?” I know of course what he’s saying. I’ve been gone two years and John Watson has moved on. Has a serious girlfriend, of course. Is living in a nice flat with her, no longer in the messy confines of Baker Street, no longer held there by his fascination with his mad flat mate. Of course. He thought I was dead and he moved on. I’m a bit surprised with his lack of sentiment, but secretly pleased. I must have rubbed off on him a bit after all. Ah yes. I remember it all in a flash. Secret missions, dangerous, torture in Serbia. Mycroft undercover, rescuing me. Mycroft knew I wasn’t dead. He sent me there, to unravel Moriarty’s network. _Of course_. It all makes sense now that _I remember it._

“You know, it is just possible that you won’t be welcome _.”_ Nonsense. I scoff at Mycroft. It’s _John._ Of course he’ll be happy to see me. We’ll get right back to what we do best- solving crimes together, drinking tea, calling each other idiots.

I stand up and shrug into my coat, flip the collar up. _When did I hang up the phone? I must have- it’s here in my pocket._ I waltz out the front door and find myself handing my coat to a maître-d’. Busy restaurant, bow tie. Wife is in labor- the ping of his cell phone is perfectly timed. _She’s in labor._ He hustles away- it appears as though I said that last bit out loud. I glance briefly behind me. I don’t recall the taxi ride here. I must’ve been lost in thought. I touch my head again. A bit unlike me, I usually have much better control of my thoughts. I make a mental note to have John check for a concussion. Perhaps I suffered one in Serbia. Or when I fell- _jumped_ -off the roof…? No. Two years ago, that.

I spot him across the restaurant. Nice shirt, tie. He’s combed his hair, put a bit of product in it. It looks silvery in the ambient lighting. He’s grown a mustache. _Oh John. You look ancient. I can’t be seen wandering around the streets of London with an old man. That will have to go._

I want to surprise him. I glance around the restaurant and it’s almost as though items appear for me to find- a bowtie, whisked off a man- _sorry sir, your water!-_ a pair of spectacles and a eyeliner pencil – _right on top of her open handbag, almost too perfect-_ traces a ridiculous lopsided moustache on my upper lip. I grin. There’s no way he’ll be fooled by this. He’ll laugh, call me an idiot. We can order dinner here, or go grab Chinese.

I barely register the first hit. Suddenly, I’m on the floor under John and he looks absolutely _murderous._ Oh. Bit not good, showing up after being dead for two years, apparently. The location changes- café, kebab shop – but John’s anger doesn’t fade. I deserve this, I realize. I hurt his feelings, not including him in the plans. If only I could explain to him that I was only trying to keep him _safe._ I try, repeatedly, but the words don’t come out. I dig myself deeper into a hole. I keep idiotically mentioning the moustache, like a broken record. Blood spurts from lacerations on my face, my nose. Damn my sociopathic tendencies. If only I could dredge up something like _sentiment_ I could tell John what he apparently needs to hear. John is down the block, hailing a cab. I glance at Mary. She’s wholesome- _only child, bakes bread, nurse, loves cats-_ perfect for John.

“Gosh, you don’t know anything about human nature do you?” No, Mary. I don’t. I’m a machine. John said so himself.

John and Mary climb into their taxi. It’s better this way. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is struggling to come to terms with reality.

I’m standing at the window, staring out at the bleak rain. I’ve no idea what day it is, or even how long Sherlock’s been in hospital. I’m exhausted, but I will myself to keep my eyes open, afraid of the images that float before me when I close them. Blue-green eyes, glassy, unblinking, that pale face covered in blood….

Suddenly enraged, I whip around and glare at the unconscious form on the bed. _That bloody idiot. How could he do this to me?_

“BLOODY HELL, SHERLOCK, WHY?!? Why didn’t you tell me- talk to me, Mycroft, ANYONE?? You’re nearly DEAD, Sherlock! Is this what you wanted? Of course it is. But WHY?” My hands twitch at my sides. Oh how I’d love to see that cocky smirk again. And then smack that smirk right off his face. I want him to _hurt_. I want him to hurt as much as I’m hurting.

Blood still boiling under the surface, I switch on the telly and flip through the channels, taking deep breaths to calm myself. I clench and unclench my left hand, noticing the tremor as I sink down into the chair in the corner of the room, resigned.

_…safety tips for Bonfire Night tonight…_

_…Lord Moran will be in an all night sitting for anti-terrorist bill…_

_…skeleton mystery solved…._

I stand to switch the telly back off and stumble. Clasping my head in my hands, I blink several times to fight the stars floating before my eyes. A chill passes over me and my stomach lurches. “Ohhhh shhhiii---“ I manage before the floor comes up to meet me.

“John?”

I try to open my eyes. I know that voice- I’d know that deep baritone anywhere. The face of my dear friend floats into my vision.

_“John? John! I wonder when he’s last eaten…or slept. He really isn’t taking care of himself, he's just sitting vigil.”_

“John?” He halts, eyes round and innocent, pleading.“I don’t know how to do this, but John, please, can you forgive me for all the hurt I’ve caused you? There’s something I’ve always meant to say. I-I—“

_Oi! John! Up you go!_

Slowly, the room comes into view. Sherlock’s face blurs as I blink and the worried face of nurse Mary sharpens in front of my eyes.

I groan and push myself into a sitting position against the wall. Mary hands the bottle in her hand ( _ammonia inhalant_ ) to another nurse, who flutters off.

“John," she starts gently, then halts. We turn in unison as the door opens and voices tumble in-

“yes, thank goodness we managed to catch the coach after all- Oh! Are we interrupting…? ”

Mycroft strides in, followed by an elderly couple.

“John Watson, meet my, er- our, parents.” He gestures at Sherlock. 

I struggle to my feet, Mary’s hand on my elbow and shake hands with Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. I watch as his mother’s eyes roam over the figure of her youngest son for the first time- bandages on his head, swollen eyes, sunken, pale cheeks, a sea of wires. My chest aches for her.

My eyes shift to Mary as she checks Sherlock’s vitals. From her breast pocket, she removes a penlight, and then glances my way.

“May I?” I hold out my hand for the light. She hesitates, and then nods.

I gently pry open Sherlock’s left eye and shine the light in it.

“Pupillary reactivity- 4”. I mutter, gripping the flashlight. Tears spring to my eyes.  
_Why, Sherlock, why? Why did you jump? Why aren’t you here with me? Why won’t you wake up?_

_“Oh my…God!“_ I squeeze my eyes shut, realizing I had spoken that last part out loud. I’m still so angry with him. “I can’t…I don’t know…I’m sorry.” I whisper, disgusted with myself. Mary’s hand touches my back gently.

“John? How about if we let the Holmes have a few minutes with their brother and son? Why don’t you head down to the cafeteria and eat something?” 

Mary guides me to the door by my elbow.

“Go, John. Go now.”

I stumble out of the room and down to the hospital cafeteria, blood sugar dangerously low. I nibble at a biscuit and sip weak tea before deciding to head back to Baker Street and collect some clean clothes, maybe a nice warm jumper…and my thoughts. I can’t keep falling apart like this.

I take a deep breath as I approach the familiar Baker Street door. 221b. Such innocence in those four characters, yet in that particular arrangement, they take my breath away. This is where it all began.

I stand on the sidewalk and glance up at the window. I can almost picture Sherlock standing there, glaring down at the “hateful, calm world”, or weaving a delicate melody on his violin, revealing the deep humanity within him.

 

Feeling numb, I push open the door and stagger upstairs.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock attends John and Mary's wedding, but things start getting a bit weird. Also, Sherlock is alone and sad, but that's nothing new here.

I open my eyes to Mrs. Hudson’s knock and “yoohoo!” My arms are held at strange angles and there is violin music playing. Ah. I’m _dancing_ …with what appears to be an imaginary person. I do love dancing. Rarely ever comes up in a case.

Tea has appeared. Oh- Mrs. Hudson apparently does this every morning. Says I’m usually sleeping. _sleeping? me? unlikely._ After a tiresome chat about biscuits, she starts in about marriage. _What?_ I drag myself from my own thoughts to learn that John and Mary are getting married today. Interesting. I’m sure I would have remembered that. In fact, when did they get engaged? I saw them just last night, didn’t I? I’m sure of it, and Mary was most definitely not wearing a ring. Scowling, I shoo Mrs. Hudson out. I need to think. I wander into my bedroom and stop short. A tuxedo is hanging on the open door of my wardrobe. I _certainly_ don’t remember putting that there. I close my eyes to sift back through my memories- there must be _something_ in my mind palace to give me a clue.

Bright light makes me blink. _Outside??_ I look round- John and Mary are in front of me, beaming with delight. _Married._ I glance to my right- _young woman- 34, dark hair, single, friend of Mary’s, Irish, 2 cats, PA_ \- is clutching my arm and grinning at me.

Wedding music. John and Mary hug guests. _Boring. Boring. Ex-boyfriend. Young boy- yeah I don’t know why they insist on all of this either. Beheadings._

Inside- tables filled with people I know- Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson. There’s a swirl of people, flashes – _photographer­­_ \- maybe food? It all swims past me quickly, as though in a dream.

Suddenly, I’m standing and someone has handed me a microphone. All eyes are on me. My mouth goes dry. A speech? I have no idea…I haven’t prepared. I glance down at my hands and realize I’m holding a stack of notecards. _Oh_. Maybe I have prepared? I start to read. I’m babbling, watching the swarm of faces in front of me change- shock, disgust, annoyance. I can read their emotions as though they’re written across their faces, but can’t seem to stop the flow of words coming out of my mouth. I have absolutely no idea what I’m saying and I’m starting to feel uncomfortable. I glance down at John. He gives me a reassuring smile. _Deep breath._ I’ll talk about John. Mmm, yes. That’s…good. I know John. It’ll be over soon, I’m sure of it. I take another deep breath, steadying myself, and plunge on, ignoring the notecards in my hand.

“The point I’m  _trying_  to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet…but John is the bravest and kindest and _wisest_ human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing….I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will  _never_  let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that.”

I glance down at John. He looks shocked, stricken. A horrified feeling washes over me. _What have I done??_ _Did I do it wrong? Oh god, he had no idea._

John leaps to his feet and I grimace, the memory of his fists still fresh. To my shock, I feel…warmth. John’s hands- on my arm, and the back of my neck. He’s pulling me close… _hugging me._ I blink in surprise and cautiously hug him back. _Sentiment_. _Too much._ I’m struggling to regain my train of thought. _Stories. Crime. Murders._

I pull away abruptly, leaping over the table and pacing aimlessly around the room. Once again, I’m not even sure what I’m saying. My neck and arm are still warm, tingling from John’s hands. _Am I drunk? I’m babbling again…Oh! Drunk is kind of…pleasant. I wonder if John’s ever been drunk. It would be fun to be drunk together._ A ghost of a smile wafts across my face, and my eyes flutter closed.

At the thump of heavy bass, my eyes spring open again. _Bar?_ Colorful lights are flashing in time to the music. _Dance club?_ I recognize the song from…somewhere _? ‘When you move up close to me, that’s when I get the chills all over me’._ I wrinkle my nose and realize I’m holding something in my hand. I glance around. John is standing at my elbow, holding a matching… _graduated cylinder?_ He clinks it against mine and leans in. “Cheers, mate!” The liquid is cool, burning pleasantly on the way down my throat. I shudder slightly, and feel the room tilt. “Whoaaaa… I gotcha buddy!” _John again._ John’s hands catch me beneath my armpits and drag me away.

 _Stairs_. We’re lying at the bottom of the staircase at Baker Street now, giggling. Mrs. Hudson comes out and admonishes us. “You’ve only been gone two hours!” We stumble up the stairs, clutching each other.

“Am I a pretty lady?” I squint at the card on John’s forehead, moving closer to get a better view. _I’m not even sure what we’re doing. A game?_ John is slumped in his chair, leaning heavily on his loose fist, loose and warm. _Is he pretty? No. He’s strong. A soldier. Reliable._ John sits up, staggering forward slightly and clutching my knee for balance.

“Vatican Cameos!” I hear myself shout at John. _What on earth…?? That’s what I shouted at him in Irene Adler’s living room. There was danger there- I needed him to duck. Why am I shouting it now? Are we in danger?_ I whirl around, my waistcoat fluttering. _Waistcoat?_ Wedding. _My head spins._

It has the desired effect- John looks shocked and whispers to Mary- “Battle stations. Someone is going to die.” I’m finding it hard to keep up with what I’m supposed to be doing. Surely this isn’t normal behavior for a wedding? Are we still at the wedding? _Narrow it down._ I hear Mycroft’s voice and look up to see him in a chamber, looming over me. I look down at my hands, they’re clenched tightly. _Mind Palace?_

No, chairs and tables, people I know, dressed up. I point at John- “It’s always you!” _I flinch. Did I just say that here, in front of all these people? Ugh. Too much sentiment. I really must have hit my head. I’m losing control of my emotions- they’re leaking out of me like water._

“Let’s play…MURDER.” _Better. Let’s talk about people dying. Less dangerous than all these feelings creeping in._

My gaze settles on a man in uniform. _Major Sholto._ I startle- _how do I know his name?_ Ah. He must have known John. _Danger._ He’s in danger? _Obvious- he has to be the murder victim._ I watch him leave, and turn to watch John’s expression. _Fear. Excitement. Grief??_ I spin around and hurry after Major Sholto. He must be important to John; I’ll save him.

Rushed conversation outside Sholto’s locked hotel room. _Drama queen!_ _Delayed action stabbing_. Sholto is safe- John saves him. _We wouldn’t do that to John Watson, would we?_

Downstairs, back at the reception. Dancing, with Janine this time. Oh, the photographer is the murderer. _Head is throbbing._ I close my eyes briefly, then open them when I feel the familiar weight of my violin. All eyes on me again- _why?_ Violin, I must be playing for them. I recognize the music- I wrote it for John long ago. I glance up- John and Mary are twirling, waltzing. My chest tightens, and I finish the music on a lingering note. John looks happy. Of course he’s happy- this is what he wants, what he needs. I can’t possibly be right for him. I’m dangerous, better off alone. Alone protects _him_ from _me_.

A baby. _Of course, logical next step._ Mary is pregnant. She is positively glowing, and John can’t hide his excitement either. I allow myself to study John’s face while he is looking at Mary, caught in their perfect world together. _Goodbye John._ _She’ll make you happy. I’ll still be here, not that you’ll hardly need_ me _anymore, with a real baby on the way._

I’m outside. Music is playing around me, but it’s distant, cheerful, meant for dancing. “ _…What a lady, what a night…”_ I straighten my shoulders, and fling my coat around me. _Safe. Comfortable. Familiar. Alone._ I allow the darkness to swallow me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is patient and his vigil pays off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was an absolute beast to write, the length got away from me a bit, but BIG THINGS are happening. BIG. HUGE.

Routine. At the gentle suggestions of the nurses, Sherlock and I have fallen into a bit of a routine. It’s vaguely comforting to me to have something to do. Thanks to Mycroft, no doubt, I am now granted full, 24- hour access to Sherlock’s room and have scarcely left. I’m numb, going through the motions, clinging desperately to the smallest glimmer of hope even as it dims each day that he spends locked in stillness.

When I wake each morning (I’ve graduated to a cot now, a marked improvement over the chair), I walk across the hall for a cup of tea. This gives the nurse on duty a chance to perform her morning checks, and grants Sherlock a bit of privacy during them.

Once she finishes, I settle into the chair at Sherlock’s side, adjusting his arm slightly so I can curl my fingers into his palm. The nurses insist that the physical pressure may help connect him back to the real world. I don’t mind. It helps me feel more grounded too, especially on days where I feel like the smallest puff of air could send me floating to the sky like a discarded balloon. I flick on the television and watch the morning news, clearing my throat to keep the monologue flowing, anything and everything, words tumbling over themselves to fill the silence, hoping Sherlock can hear my voice from wherever he is, far away inside his mind.

 _…Metropolitan Police have apprehended the Waters Gang on multiple accounts of robbery…_ “Oh will you look at that. They finally caught ‘em. Only took ‘em two years. Jesus Christ. You would’ve had them in three days, max. Amazing. Well, looks like Lestrade can finally get some much-needed sleep. God, he looks like hell. Oh, you’d have a field day with this, Sherlock. Shit, it’s probably good you’re not there- they’d _never_ live this one down.”

By mid-morning, I am hoarse. I take a small break so as not to overwhelm Sherlock and use the bathroom to freshen up a bit. I change into clean clothes, brush my teeth, shave. I keep up the appearance of _normal_ , numbly.

Mrs. Hudson arrives as I’m walking out of the bathroom. She’s carrying a laptop, tucked under her arm.

“I brought his laptop for you, dear, although you know he doesn’t like me mucking about in his stuff.” She pauses, looking thoughtful. “Though I might take the opportunity to get a proper dusting in.” She attempts a smile, but her eyes well with tears. “No change, then?” She clucks her tongue at the shake of my head and leans down to whisper in his ear. “Sherlock, we’re all still waiting on you, dear. Take your time, but don’t take too long, love. You have work to do here. You’re needed.” She straightens, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. I hug her and walk her to the door. “Do ring if you need anything, John.”

I check my watch, a nervous gesture now, a need to stay connected to the real world. I’m alone in Sherlock’s room again. The nurse on shift, Janine, has just completed her afternoon rounds, and has encouraged me to start playing music to help connect more of Sherlock’s senses. I boot up Sherlock’s laptop and realize with a hollow laugh that it is not even password protected. I find what I’m looking for immediately, and click on the icon. Music flows from the speakers, and I balance the computer on the edge of his mattress. _Tchaikovsky._ I recognize the piece; it’s one of my favorites that he plays, late into the night, skilled fingers skimming over the strings, bow held firmly in hand. My hand absently strokes Sherlock’s arm before weaving his fingers into mine. I look down- his long, pale fingers are a stark contrast against my shorter, weathered hands. I rub small circles on the back of his hand with my thumb, lost in memories; returning home late at night after a case, adrenaline ebbing, collapsing in my chair, feeling each muscle relax as I listen to him play- slow and melodious, building to a crescendo, then falling gently as my head gets heavier and drifts back to the cushion.

I sit up, pushing off the metal railings of the bed and scrubbing my hands over my face. I’m surprised to find it damp. A sharp knock on the door startles me. _Mycroft_. He strides in, looking directly at Sherlock’s face, and not sparing a glance at me.

“John, I do hope you’ll allow me some privacy with my brother for a few minutes. We have some…brotherly manners of which to take care.”

I stand up straight, glaring at him. He inclines his head towards the door, without ever taking his eyes off of his brother’s face. I’ve been dismissed. I turn on my heel and walk crisply out the door. I will allow him five minutes.

I walk without purpose once in the hall, ambling eventually towards the front entrance of the hospital. Maybe I’ll grab a bit of fresh air before I go back upstairs.

“John?” I hear my name and drag my conscience back to the present. I look round and see Lestrade striding toward me from the elevator. I blink at him before holding out my hand. He shakes it, unable to conceal the concern behind his eyes. “Just finished with a statement. Shift ended an hour ago, but the witness was a bit unforthcoming…” he trails off. “Wanna grab a drink? You look like you could use one, mate.” I shrug and catch myself as my gaze shifts up. As if I could check on Sherlock through the atrium ceiling. Mycroft will call me if there’s any change, of that I’m certain. He may be an obnoxiously protective git, but he’s not entirely heartless.

I meet Greg’s eye and nod. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

I feel warm and more relaxed than I have in days when I return to the hospital later. Greg and I had sat mostly in comfortable silence, sipping our drinks and occasionally glancing up at the telly above the bar. “You’re good for him John,” he had said suddenly, as I was shrugging into my jacket. “I’ve never seen him like…the way he was, _is,_ with you. He trusts you and he… _enjoys_ your company.” Lestrade had given a small nod, as if he had been holding onto this little speech for a while and was glad to have finally spit it out. I gave him a tight smile and a small shrug. “I think we’re good for each other.”

Mycroft strides out of his brother’s room right when I step off the elevator, as if he was simply waiting for that perfect moment of synchronization. He gives me a small nod as we pass, and his voice is so low that I almost miss it. “Thank you.” The words sound rough and almost _emotional_ and I walk into Sherlock’s room shaking my head at the continuous wonders that are the Holmes brothers.

I don’t realize quite how drained- _and a bit drunk_ \- I am until I sit down. Sherlock’s laptop is still on the edge of the bed, and I fumble over the keys for a minute before the music begins. I hit the shuffle button on the playlist and turn the volume down low. Resting my head on my folded arms, I start talking in a low murmur.

“You weren’t my first, you know. I mean, uh, you’re not the first bloke I was…am…attracted…interested, oh hell.” I exhale. I’ve never told anyone any of this before, but the alcohol has me feeling loose-lipped and nostalgic. I continue quietly, head down on my arms. “Major James Sholto, my commanding officer. Never reciprocated, never acted on it. Hell, didn’t even admit it, not to myself until after…” Another breath, shaky on the exhalation. “I’m not gay. But being surrounded by men all the time, and in uniforms, I mean a lot of us…experimented. But I knew for sure that I may be attracted to…both…uh…I mean, men and women...after…I saved a fellow officer’s life in the shower.” I feel heat in my cheeks and keep my head down low. “But Sherlock, Sholto was….he was not you. You are the person I care about most in this world. You are my best friend and all that’s…right in this world.” Staggering to a sitting position, I lean my head on my fist and drink in the sight of him. If not for the bandage around his head, he looks as though he could just be sleeping. Peaceful, calm. _Gorgeous._

“The day I met you…you completely turned my life around, changed everything, you with your _cheekbones_ and your turned up collar…you’d probably tell me to shut up if you could right now.” I smile a bit, imagining the look on his face if I ever worked up the nerve to say all this again while he was conscious. Maybe I should try it sometime; I’m sure it would be the first time the mighty Sherlock Holmes was left speechless. Lost in thought, I listen quietly to the music for a moment, lyrics cruel in their irony.

 _It’s like you’re screaming, and no one can hear_  
You almost feel ashamed  
That someone could be that important  
That without them, you feel like nothing

Still woozy, I shift forward in my chair to stretch my legs and nearly tumble off. My hand flings out to stop me, grabbing onto the nearest solid part it finds. I sense movement at the door and turn, fingers still holding tightly to…Sherlock’s _thigh_ , I realize, and hastily withdraw my hand.

“Sorry I startled you, John.” Tessa, the evening nurse says softly, eyes locked on Sherlock’s monitor. I turn to see what has caught her attention. His heart rate has sped up, and his blood pressure is raised slightly. Tessa and I glance at each other, eyebrows raised. “John, do that again,” she says cautiously.

I feel a soft flare of heat when I realize what she means by “that” but I hover my hand over the thin sheet briefly before lowering it to Sherlock’s leg again. I give a quick squeeze, just above the knee, and nearly shout when I feel the muscle under my hand tense. Whirling around, I watch the tiny blips on the monitor that confirm our suspicions- Sherlock is _reacting._

“Sherlock. Can you feel that?” I whisper, clutching his hand and staring desperately at those pale eyelids. “Please? Open your eyes?”

Tessa bustles around me, eyes flicking from the monitor to Sherlock’s face. “Keep a firm touch, Dr. Watson. Let’s see if we can pull him up a bit. Not too fast or I’m afraid he’ll crash. Nice and slow, now. Keep talking.”

I rub his sternum briskly with my knuckles, left hand still clutching his tightly. “Come on, Sherlock. One more movement. Give us something. I know you’re in there.” We continue rubbing and pinching, talking and cajoling, keeping a careful eye on the monitors for another sign of _life inside_. Eventually, I lower my forehead to his, eyes closed. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Rest and we’ll try more tomorrow. You’re brilliant.” I breathe. I open my eyes and find myself lost in a swirl of grey, green and blue irises, intense this time, piercing and _alive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a doctor, but I've been reading medical journals and personal stories to try and make this as realistic as possible. If anyone in the medical field finds anything appallingly inaccurate, please let me know :)  
> Also, the song referenced in "We Found Love" by Rihanna, the last song played during John's Stag night in TSoT (the episode this chapter was loosely based on). I had a lot of fun writing this.


	6. Chapter 6

The world is dark, faint sounds blinking in and out like fireflies. A door slams. Someone shouts. Another shout. Heavy footsteps. A whispered name. Rubber soles – _brown leather, not trainers­_ \- and voices getting steadily closer. A distinct smell lingers in the air. I know exactly where I am, but I can’t remember any of the decisions that led me to this grimy mattress, surrounded by smack-heads and junkies. My head is cloudy, thoughts bouncing around sporadically. As if from another world, I hear the unmistakable voice of Doctor John Watson. _Is he here to rescue me?_ I roll over, memories settling like a pit in my stomach. _Can’t be John, John is with Mary; domestic bliss._ “Sherlock? ” John’s voice again, but different, catches in his throat like he’s trying to hide something. I make a mental note to delete him – _temporarily…?_ \- from my Mind Palace when I sober up. Much too painful to have him pop up like this when I’m high and my defenses are down. _He left me. He chose her._

“Oh, hello John. Didn’t expect to see you here. Come for me too?” One side of my face pulls up in an attempt at a sarcastic smile, but I’m distracted by a beeping sound, and whip my head around, trying to identify the sound. John is pulling me to my feet, marching me outside. The sun is too bright and my head is throbbing. The back door of a car is wrenched open and I sink gratefully into it. _Everything hurts. Why does it all have to hurt?_

“…because Sherlock Holmes needs to pee in a jar!” My eyes close again to block the angry sound of John’s voice. When I open them, the face of Molly Hooper looms before me- lips pursed, eyes squinting, jaw set firmly– _furious­-_ and I hear the crack of skin before the pain registers on my cheek. “How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with? And how dare you betray the love of your friends!?” I stare back at her, trying to sort through the emotions I can see written in her eyes- _anger, concern, something else- sentiment? -_ before she storms away.

I feel suddenly, inexplicably angry. I shove Mycroft up against the kitchen doorframe – _Baker Street- not sure how we got here- people were talking- must’ve muted them._ He stutters out a curse, but recovers quickly into his usual cold dialect _­. “_ I’ll have to phone our parents in Oklahoma and let them know; they’ll be so upset to interrupt their line dancing for this.” _Mummy and Daddy- would love them to meet John- why am I thinking like this? - how would I even do that- here’s my…flatmate…? Ugh._

 _“_ Get. out. Mycroft.” I spit out each word. “Do not appall me when I’m _high_ ” I hiss and wrench his arm backwards. From my right, John steps toward Mycroft and whispers something in his ear. I strain forward to hear and my hand slips off the arm I’m holding. “…and right now I’m slightly worried that he might. Don’t speak, Mycroft. Just leave.”

My eyes catch John’s for a brief moment after Mycroft straightens and grabs his umbrella. A name echoes around my skull… _Magnusson…_ I’m not sure why but the name makes my chest tighten. Mycroft had said it, and his usual sardonic tone had been laced with something akin to fear. _Uses his power and wealth to gain information…the most dangerous man…preys on the weaknesses of those that are different…_

I feel a sudden weight on my knee, and my eyes travel up a _distinctly female_ body and into the eyes of Janine. I have absolutely no idea where she came from or even… _wait- where am I?? Where is-_ I glance to my left. John is walking in stride, coffee cup in hand as we move stealthily through an impressive atrium. The weight of a small box is in my hand, and I open it to display a sparkling diamond ring. I’m staring at a small screen fixed to the front of a private elevator, Janine’s face grinning at me, but I shift my gaze away from her expectant gaze – _This must be for a case; I can’t imagine a situation otherwise where I would feel compelled to propose-_ to the blonde man to my right. As I lock on those blue irises that I know better than my own, the world around us shifts and swirls. _I’m falling…up?_

I’m staring down a corridor- _where is John? I try to move my head but I feel stuck, limbs locked in place-_ a bride in a wedding gown has a gun pointed at me- _blonde hair, liar, Mary?!_ A gasp strangles me and I feel myself falling, falling – eyes rolling to try and find something…someone... I reach out but my arms flail wildly. _Pain now- ricocheting through me._ My mouth opens in a silent scream. An alarm blares- white, blinding, sharp. _Focus._ Faces flash in front of me- first Molly, Anderson? Mycroft – “ _you’re always so stupid”-_ Their mouths are moving, talking to me, but nothing makes sense - _fall now!_ Alarm is blaring louder; thrumming in time to the red hot, screaming pain. I can’t breathe- _Mycroft is talking again_ \- “Something in this mind palace. Find it. _Find something to calm you down_.” I’m frantic; running, gasping, tripping down stairs until I find a familiar corridor; warm wood and open doors. A soft metallic jingle- _Hello Redbeard, they’re putting me down too now-_ I rub my fingers over his silky fur and feel the pain ebb; I’m numb, calm. I feel myself relaxing, the edges of the world softening- I want to stay here forever, but the panic is rising again and the pain is back- stifling and crashing over me in waves. I get up and run down corridors, staircases, trying to find my way out, to escape this agony. A door; different than the rest, at the very bottom of the stairs. _Exit!_ I fling it open and sink down, gasping, trying to catch my breath but it’s too much, I’m choking and panicking, screaming- _control, control, control!_ A figure is crouched on the floor- _John! hurt!?_ \- but it’s not John, it’s _\- No. Not You_. Moriarty- _you’re supposed to be dead!-_ is taunting me, lurches at me, _terrifying_. I curl into myself, gasping, tears squeezing down my nose, trickling onto the floor.

“ _Pain. Heartbreak. Loss. Death. It’s all good. You always feel it. BUT YOU DON’T HAVE TO FEAR IT!_ ” He screams at me, frantic. I’m lying flat on the floor now, too weak to struggle. I want to close my eyes, to disappear. Just one little push, not too hard, like falling asleep, slipping…but then I hear another voice- far away- choked, _afraid-_ “Sherlock!”

Moriarty is twirling, dancing around my field of vision, bouncing maniacally off the walls.

“ _…Ohhhhhh John will cry buckets and buckets…it’s him I worry about the most…”_

I force my eyes open. I have to get out. I have to get to John. I heard his voice call my name- he’s definitely in danger. I fling myself around and push open the door. With shaking fingers, I grasp the staircase. I pull myself up one step at a time, barely breathing. Sweat makes my hand slippery, drips into my eyes. I can’t feel my body, can’t feel individual limbs, fingers, or toes, nothing but a shroud of pain, pain everywhere, every nerve taut, and I’m cold. So cold. I’m shaking and breaking, but I have to get to John. I have to get us out of here.

 _Sherlock is dying…_ Moriarty’s taunts follow me all the way up the staircase. My vision blurs, bits of memories flashing.

 _Mind Palace._ I slam my hand onto the top step and close my eyes, sinking onto the floor.

 _Baker Street, now._ Mary _–liar! assassin! -_ but not here she’s not, not in this room. She’s just a client. We’ll solve her case and she’ll go away. John – _he’s ok!­-_ is shouting, voice raw with pain. _But you chose her, John._ I want to help, want to fix it for him, but I’m falling again. John’s next to me in an instant this time and I scrabble to look at him before the pain overwhelms me. I stiffen and then collapse, John’s arms tightening around me as I sink down, letting go.

 _It’s Christmas. I’m dreaming- I’m sure of it. The light is soft, dancing around the cosy cottage. Mummy and Daddy, Mycroft, John and Mary are all here. I feel warm and happy sitting in the tiny kitchen, listening to Mummy tut about, fussing over me_.

But something tugs at the back of my mind, through the haze that I’m not so sure is a dream anymore- John and Mary. Mary and John…Mary. _Mary!!_ It’s wrong, all wrong. _The haze clears._ Mary shot me, and they fought at Baker Street. Why is she still here? John’s protecting her, but from what _?_

 _Magnusson._ Magnusson is our way out of this hell, I’m sure of it. I must get to Appledore. I look around the living room- Mary, Mummy, Daddy, even Mycroft- all unconscious, slumped over the table and in chairs and sprawled on the couch. _Did I…?_ I hear the whirring of helicopter blades outside, and I’m running through a field with John at my heels. I’m focused now - I need to get into Appledore’s vaults- to collect and _destroy_ all the information Magnusson has on Mary. That will fix this. The pieces click into place as we descend on the sprawling mansion and I’m calmer than I’ve been in a long time.

I’m only half-listening to Magnusson’s gravelly voice- _painfully slow, like he’s speaking to idiots-_ feeling distinctly on edge. I can see John feels it too; his hand is clenching rhythmically at his side. My mind is whirring to solidify the details of my plan- Mycroft will find us; we have his laptop and I’m sure there’s a GPS locator on it. We just need to secure Magnusson – _John brought his gun­-_ and grab the files. I’ve barely said a word since we arrived and have no recollection of walking across the vast room, to where I’m now standing, trying to make sense of the words coming out of the bespectacled man seated in front of me.

“There are no vaults beneath this building,” he continues in the same syrupy slow voice. My eyes snap up in alarm. Where the descending stairs to the vaults should’ve been- _I was so certain! stupid!-_ there is simply a white room, barely larger than a closet. _Mind palace. of course! a memory trick, no more. anyone can do it._ My mouth feels dry and I try to swallow around the panic that’s rising. I can’t move, can’t speak. I’m terrified to look at John. _There’s always something. I’ve failed- made a mistake. A huge one this time, and I don’t know how to fix it._ Still I stand, unmoving, staring as Magnusson chuckles. I sway slightly on my feet, trying desperately to fight the sudden wave of nausea. I’m aware of John speaking to me, but I can’t answer. My eyes slide closed.

“Sherlock Holmes has made one enormous mistake that will destroy the lives of everyone he loves and everything he holds dear”

I open my eyes. There’s a loud roar, like distant thunder. I stare wide-eyed at the helicopter, the guards, John’s soldier mask slipping as he says my name, pleadingly. _What do we do??_

Red laser sights are dancing over me. The roar is louder now, drowning out all the other sounds. _I can fix it._ I take a deep breath and pull the trigger. Magnusson falls and distantly, I hear John yell. From somewhere even farther away, I hear Mycroft’s voice too.

“GET AWAY FROM ME, JOHN! STAY WELL BACK!” I’m breaking apart at the seams, arms raised above my head. If this is what it feels like to care, I’m glad I’ve never done it before. The ache inside me threatens to spill out of my throat and I refuse to look at John. I can’t. I know that I would die a hundred times over, be thrown in jail to rot for the rest of my life, be tortured, blackmailed, sent on a suicide mission, before I let John hurt for one more minute. Mary is safe. John is safe. _Give Mary my love,_ I say. I’ll be sent far away so I can’t hurt anyone anymore. John has forgiven Mary for shooting me; she was being blackmailed, she didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t personal, and I’m just in the way. They have a baby coming; of course they wouldn’t want a sociopath, high-functioning or not, to interfere in their life.

On the tarmac, our goodbyes – _certain I’ll never see him again, but I don’t say that, I can’t say any of the things I want to say -_ I shake John’s hand, and make a joke so he won’t see the pain in my eyes. I’m torn apart, but I can’t let him know. I’m desperate to climb into my seat on the plane, desperate for the numbness I know I’ll find at the end of the needle. I pat the case stuffed in my pocket as I ascend the steps to the aircraft, forcing myself not to turn and look back at John. It’s better this way. It was worth a try, but I can’t be what he needs. The plane rises into the sky, and I clasp my fist against my mouth, muffling my sobs, before the welcome darkness consumes me.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From my writing playlist on spotify- Surfing the Human Heart by the Pomegranates. 
> 
> "sign of god i really need you sign of god i really need you  
> and thats the truth these days  
> if i could love you with all of my heart  
> couldnt stop the world from falling apart even if i try  
> i am writing on the crest of a dream when I'm with you so it seems  
> let this night never end"

I wake with a gasp, sheets tangled around my legs, t-shirt plastered to my back with sweat. I fling the entire mess of low-thread cotton onto the floor and scrub my hands over my face. I couldn’t have been asleep more than an hour or two, and I am still exhausted. Somehow, that perfect storm still wasn’t enough to keep the nightmares at bay. This one had been different. It was not the usual explosions, heat and grit of Afghanistan that always forces me to relive the exact moment the bullet ripped into my shoulder, nor was it the heart-wrenching desperation of stumbling towards open-yet-sightless eyes on a pavement, covered in blood. In this dream, Sherlock was alive and speaking, _cajoling_ me into following him with the promise of danger and violence, just as he had the first night we met. But before I could enthusiastically reply – _oh, god yes!- I had been so desperate that night for someone to understand-_ he had vanished into a wisp of smoke, replaced by the pounding of my own heart drumming in my ears.

I sit up with a sigh and pad into the bathroom. After I splash some water on my face, I lean in and peer at myself in the mirror with eyes that feel embedded with sand. The exhaustion is evident in dark circles under both eyes, lines creasing my forehead and around my mouth. Absently, I rub the bridge of my nose. The last few days have been more grueling than any of Sherlock’s stay so far in the hospital. Because of his injuries, Sherlock has endured several surgeries to repair his shattered pelvis and reduce the _miraculously minor_ swelling in his brain. He was originally sedated with propofol and ventilated but the sedation has been slowly reduced and Sherlock was assisting the ventilator enough to be extubated after a few days. He had opened his eyes two nights ago, and his team had been encouraged that this was the start of his awakening. For the last 24 hours, his nurses continued to reduce the propofol and I was tasked with _enticing_ him to wake up. I played his favorite music, spoke to him, held his hand, stroked his cheek, and read everything I could think of to spark interest in my favorite mad flatmate. Lestrade had brought several cold case files, which I read aloud to Sherlock. I had reread my blog, starting at the very beginning of our time together, and even typing up some of my notes from cases I had never found time to publish. In typical Sherlock fashion, he had remained stubbornly unconscious. Several times, he had twitched or moved in a way that made my breath catch in anticipation; he had even opened his eyes a few more times, but when I leaned in, I could see the absence of _Sherlock_ in those sea-glass eyes. He was simply not waking up and with every hour that passed, a cold wave of fear crept over me, threatening to wash me away completely.

I glare at myself in the mirror. I can’t afford to fall apart now, not when Sherlock needs me. I straighten my shoulders and spine and give my reflection a small nod. Today, I’m a soldier.

I march back into his room and pick the sheets up off the floor. This morning seems like a good time to pop back to Baker Street, just long enough to grab a few necessary items and take a shower. Then I’m going to resume my very _proactive_ vigil at his bedside, because Sherlock without his brain, the very essence of what makes him so uniquely him, is merely transport. And that is an idea that I cannot entertain. I walk over to his bed and grip his hand, clearing my throat to make sure that my voice comes out clear and confident. I lean down to study his face once more before I go, to memorize every line. The bruising on his right cheek is almost gone, his cuts healing nicely. He has a salt and pepper speckling of stubble across his chin and cheeks, but the morning nurse will take care of that (at my insistence- Sherlock loathes the feeling of not being clean-shaven). I touch our foreheads together (my lack of personal space lately has nearly rivaled his at the best of times), before speaking.

“Sherlock, I’m going to run back to our flat to freshen up. When I come back, I’m going to continue to get you the _hell out of_ wherever you are. It’s time to wake up and be Sherlock Holmes.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

I arrive back to the hospital just as the sun is peeking over the skyline. I insisted that the cabbie take the long way back to St. Barts, down Little Britain, to avoid driving anywhere near _that_ particular corner. I pause on the street to bask in the warmth of the early morning sunshine, noting that it’s the first day it hasn’t been raining since---since Sherlock has been here. As I make my way down the hallway to Sherlock’s room, I catch myself humming and I shake my head at myself. First, giggling at crime scenes, now I’m humming in hospitals. A small smile tugs on my lips. I just know today is going to be different, somehow. I can feel it in the air; a hum of electricity, anticipation prickling my skin.

As I round the corner by the nurses’ station, my steps quicken as an odd phrase pops into my head, long buried since my university days. _“By the pricking of my thumbs…”_

I can’t remember the rest of the phrase, but the strangeness of it makes me anxious to return to his side, despite only being gone less than two hours. I stop short once I reach the doorway to his room. There are three nurses huddled around his bed, glancing at his monitors and speaking quietly to each other. I step closer and there is a sudden explosion of activity. The monitor next to Sherlock’s bed is shrieking with multiple alarms, the nurses are a flurry of movement and barked directives as they move efficiently around his bed, loading medication into his IV, checking readouts, silencing the alarms, lowering the bed, watching the clock and mouthing the time, scribbling notes in his chart. I’m frozen in place; eyes locked on Sherlock’s pale limbs stiffening and thrashing— _post-traumatic tonic-clonic seizure_ , my mind helpfully supplies—eyes wide open but pupils rolled back, jaw clenched and head arched back into his pillow. One of the nurses tosses a glance back at me, but apparently decides it’s not worth the fight to make me leave.

I clutch the railing of Sherlock’s bed and watch as the spasms slow and his limbs settle back down onto the bed. He’s sprawled awkwardly on the bed now, arms and legs at odd angles, wires and tubes snaking out from under him, caught on his sheet from the convulsions. My breath hitches as I help the nurses shift his limp body back into a more comfortable position and then they’re pulling the bed away, clicking off the brakes to wheel him down the hall for a CT scan. Mary guides me towards the chair that got pushed to the side of the room in the chaos. I sink into it gratefully, certain that my legs won’t hold me up any longer. My body feels heavy, disconnected from reality.

“John, can I call anyone? I know you’ve been here for days without much of a break. He’ll be gone for a few hours while we get him sorted. Is there anyone who can come and sit with you? It won’t do him a bit of good if you need to be admitted too.” Mary bites her lip and twists her arms in front of her.

I wave her off. I’m fine, _fine_ , just a bit shaken. The sight of him, limbs splayed and limp brought me back to the pavement. I lean my elbows on my knees and sink my head into my hands. _He’ll be okay. I’m fine._ I’m trembling, the edges of my vision sparkling, my breathing too fast and too shallow. I pull in a deep breath and hold it. It won’t help anyone if I break down now. I’m a soldier. I need to hold it together.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I wake up some time later to a darkened room and lurch to my feet, heart already racing in anticipation. With my head whipping back and forth like a wild animal and eyes wide, I stagger forward and catch myself on the metal edge of the bed. I exhale shakily, realization settling over me like a shock blanket. _He’s here, and he’s fine,_ I scold myself. Not willing to take my eyes off of him, lest he suddenly disappears, I grope my foot behind me until I catch the leg of the chair and drag it towards me. I sink into it and dig the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. I really am losing it. To calm my panicked brain, I concentrate on studying the monitor for a moment, checking output readings. He’s been hooked up to an ECG, but other than that, everything looks the same. Satisfied with my newly acquired information, I get up to retrieve my bag that I had packed when I went back to the flat. That was only this morning, I realize with a start. It seems like ages ago. I dig through the bag until I find the book that I had grabbed off the dusty shelves at home and settle back into my chair. It’s going to be a long night so I might as well entertain myself. I heave a deep sigh, trying again to settle my nerves. I clear my throat and begin reading the first of the Victorian ghost stories in the heavy anthology, trying to ignore the quaver in my voice. After a few pages, a nagging thought makes me look up. I grab the ECG readout and squint, racking my brain to try and recall my cardiology rotation. There’s something…it’s on the tip of my tongue. Frustrated, I turn back to my book. I make a mental note to mention it to the nurse during the evening rounds, but I’m sure it’s nothing. 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh heyyyyyy Victorian special! *waves*

The well-worn leather of the riding crop feels familiar as I grasp it tightly in my hand. I raise it above my head again and again, blood singing in my veins, the shrouded corpse silent in the flickering gaslight. I’m so intently focused, I almost don’t hear the footsteps (heavy-determined-tiresome-Mike Stamford and another, quick-syncopated-punctuated with a third clicking- ah! a cane, injured in the war then) until they’re nearly abreast of the table. “I do hope we’re not interrupting” the soldier says, and I can hear the faintest hint of a smile. Curious. With one more exaggerated thump for the deceased, I turn to size up my visitor.

“You’ve been to Afghanistan, I perceive.” _Familiar, something about this. Can’t quite put my finger on it._

Turning to look back at the corpse, I casually toss the crop, hoping the soldier is as quick in the hands as he is light on his feet, psychosomatic limping aside.  
“Excellent reflexes. You’ll do.” _Ah. Yes. He’ll do nicely. I’ve been in need of an assistant. Have I? Haven’t the faintest, but I find myself drawn to this mysterious man._

Rapid-fire, I make quick work of explaining my deductions and reasoning for a flat mate and assistant. Donning my hat - _I have a sudden urge to wink, what’s come over me??-_ I turn and stride out.

I climb into the black hansom that comes around the corner, the clip-clopping of the horses’ hooves muted in the fresh snowfall. Inexplicably, Dr. Watson is already seated on the bench. I stare at him, perplexed. _Impossible. In the last five minutes, he has grown a mustache and changed his clothes. Also, where is his cane?_ I climb out when we arrive at Baker Street, and charge up the stairs, determined to immerse myself in my latest experiment on optical nerve endings. I yank open the dusty curtains and whirl around to discover a woman shrouded head to toe in black. Something about her unnerves me to my very core.

“Mrs. Hudson!” I bellow, “There’s a woman in my sitting room! Is this intentional!?” I am suddenly cross. I want her to leave. I sniff indignantly. _Wait. Clair de la Lune. I recognize it at once. Mary. Watson’s wife. Wife?? Very clever. Clever? Why is she clever? Ah, hoping to reconcile with her husband. Jealous? Of me? No. She wants…something. To feel needed? Important?_ I listen with half an ear to the Watsons’ domestic, playing a simple waltz on my violin that jogs a memory somewhere deep within me. But I can listen no further when Mrs. Watson starts insulting my doctor- “Well what do _you_ do, except wander around, taking notes and looking surprised?”

My bow skips off the bridge of my violin with a sharp sound. “Enough!”

I lower my voice ominously, speaking more to myself than anyone else. The music has focused me, reminded me why I’m here. “The stage is set, the curtain rises, and we” – I cast a snide glance at Mary- “are ready to begin. If we’re to solve this case, I must go deep into myself. These are deep waters, Watson. The game…is afoot!”

I hear Lestrade’s regulation tread upon the stairs and bark him into the sitting room to say his piece. He’s rattled- no, _afraid-_ of an apparition, an abominable bride who has risen from the dead to shoot her husband and apparently frighten the whole of Scotland Yard. The case itself is hardly worth trudging through the bleak London winter, but a detail has lodged itself in my brain and is incessantly worming its way into my every breath. The bride – _Ricoletti, rings a bell somewhere but why? think, Holmes, think!_ \- has shot herself in the head, and yet…she managed to continue to wreak havoc, committing more murders and terrifying even the brutish Sir Eustace. _How did ~~he~~ she do it?_

Obsessively, I plod on with the case over the next few days, until I find myself sitting vigil in a damp greenhouse, spurred on to impatience by Watson’s relentless pestering into every recess of my mind and body- _most specifically my body’s…impulses_ \- as he indiscreetly puts it. Never have I been so impatient to be attacked by a murderous ghost. Married to my work, Watson. If you only knew…

 

“No one made me. _I_ made me.” I hear myself whispering, more to myself than Watson. _Another voice, somewhere in my head- ‘You’re not ordinary. You’re me!’_

The jingling of dog tags causes my head to snap up. For a brief second, I think I see a flash of red fur- _Redbeard?_

But before I can follow, I hear the sound of breaking glass from the other side of the property. I tear through the house, but I am late, too late.

“You promised to keep him safe!” Lady Carmichael sobs. My heart sinks. I did promise. I promised to keep all of them safe, and I’m failing, again and again.

I find Sir Eustace face down, with a dagger in his chest. Dead. Despite having calculated every detail, I have somehow managed to botch this whole case. I feel myself growing agitated, becoming more hostile, shouting at both Watson and Lestrade, “There’s only one suspect with motive. Honestly! It’s so simple even Lestrade could work it out. They might as well have left a note.”

But oh! They did! I flip it over with shaking fingers, knowing it was not here before…before, when I found Sir Eustace face down on the rug, or later, when he was being photographed by the Scotland Yard evidence team. There was no note! But now…my blood goes cold as I read the two words.

 

“Well do you?” Mycroft snarks. “Miss him?” _Impossible!_ I rub my temples, head pounding again. How could he have left a note? How can he be alive?? How did I get here to Mycroft’s room and how did _he_ get the note? _Eliminate the impossible. Narrow it down!_ I study a painting of a waterfall that seems familiar to me, attempting to ignore Mycroft’s useless blathering. _Think!_ The painting is moving- water cascading down the falls elegantly. _Fascinating._

I know what I need to do. _I need to think._ I return home to Baker Street, slide the small silk-lined case out from its hiding place. The seven percent solution buzzes in my veins, heightens every sense. I wait patiently, seated on the floor, coiled like a spring, eyes closed. Finally, he arrives. We circle each other like prey, each step calculated in this strangely intimate dance of ours.

“I know what you’re doing,” I whisper and the floor trembles. My world is tearing apart, but I am persistent. The high won’t last long.

“I need to know how you did it.” I won’t let him distract me, derail me. He’s talking in loops and rounds, tipping me over the edge. I rub my hands over my face, and close my eyes to block out the shaking, trembling room. I suck in a breath. I can’t let him know how much he affects me.

Moriarty continues. “You don’t care about Sir Eustace. You’re only interested because Emilia Ricoletti blew her own brains out. Doesn’t this remind you of another case? There’s nothing new under the sun. What was that case, Sherlock? Do you remember? It’s on the tip of my tongue, it’s on the tip…of my tongue.” Moriarty is bent low, revolver on his tongue and then…

 

“How can you be alive?” I gasp. He turns and I see the gaping hole in his head. “You blew your own brains out, how could you survive? I saw you die. Why aren’t you dead?”

And just like that, a memory crashes in, so sudden and strong, I stagger backwards. _I saw him die once before, nothing new under the sun. We shook hands, and he pulled the trigger. The roof! And then…what? I jumped, I must have done. I remember the edge of the roof, the people below me. I remember the phone call, my note. I remember John and the cab. But that was…that couldn’t have been, because here I am, aren’t I? Flesh and blood, standing here in my own flat, talking to Moriarty. But if he’s not really here, not really alive…is it possible I’m not either?_ A flash of another memory slips by, just out of reach. _Another couch, a television, a doctor. A dream within a dream. Who…?_ I clutch my head with both hands, willing myself to remember more. A glass shatters nearby. The floor beneath my feet is shaking violently and soon, I will be toppled over from it.

“Because it’s not the fall that kills you, Sherlock. Of all people, _you should know that._ It’s not the fall, it’s never the fall. It’s. The. Landing.” His mask has cracked- he’s grinning wildly, arms spread- as the quaking climbs to a crescendo, glasses falling and breaking in tune with the thumping of my heart. A high-pitched whine fills my ears, and I fall backwards. I brace myself for the striking blow to my head, but it never comes. Hesitantly, I open my eyes. A warm, feminine hand claps my shoulder. “We’ve landed, sir.”

I blink, details filling in singularly, abruptly, like morse code. Aeroplane. Suicide mission. Aborted overdose. Stupid.

No, no, no! I was so close, so close to answers! Moriarty is back, he’s alive, and I have to find out how. I need to know how he survived; I need to know how _I_ survived.

“I have to go back!” No, no good. They won’t understand. How to make them understand? Moriarty isn’t a threat, he’s not real, not _here._ But he’s the key, the secret to…. _something_. I’m trying to catch up with my brain, it’s terribly fast. But they’re crowding me- Mycroft, Mary, John and I can’t think!

“You don’t understand! I was nearly there, I nearly had it.” I’m frantic, eyes wide, trying to make them understand, but quickly now, there’s not much time.

“Of course we don’t understand. You’re not making any sense, Sherlock.” Mary. Shut up! If everyone could just shut up, I could make sense of it. Quickly, before I lose it again, before it’s buried too deep in my hard drive. “I’ve been running an experiment. In my mind palace, of course.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mycroft tuts. John interjects, to come to my defense, I assume. Always so loyal, my John. I tune them out.

“I was immersed! I need to get back there!”

“Did you make a list?” I stare at Mycroft. In the…in the other place, just a moment ago, he had said the same thing.

I toss the list at him. Everything I had with me. But of course, I didn’t take it all. At the last moment, I couldn’t go through with it. I could hear John’s voice in my head, his strangled cry as he choked on my name, from far away, below me.  

“Morphine or cocaine?” I hear John’s voice now and my head snaps around. He’d abruptly interrupted Mycroft, but the latter didn’t seem to notice, didn’t pause in his irritating blather.

“What did you say?” I squint at him, trying to block out the rushing sound in my ears.

John looks hard at me, concern creasing his forehead. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Yes you did. You said…” I close my eyes to drown out the increasing volume in my head.

“Which is it today, morphine or cocaine? Holmes? Answer me. Dammit!”

At the slam of the flat’s front door, I pick my head up off the floor and run my fingers through my hair.

“Cocaine. A seven percent solution. Care to try it?” I feign nonchalance, but I am trembling. For a few moments, I’m not sure where, or _when_ , I am, the world turned on its side. I take a deep breath, rising to my feet. I’m simply back in my mind palace experiment, it’s all fine. But I can’t seem to shake the uneasy feeling blooming deep in my gut.

John- _Watson_ , I correct myself- is a picture of fury. “No, I do not _wish to try it_. And I would quite like to find every ounce of the stuff in your possession and _pour it out of the window.”_

I turn away to hide my surprise at the force of his words. Worlds apart though they may be, there is nothing that seems to rile up one Dr. John H. Watson quite so much as mention of my drug use, a notion that is perplexing. _It’s simply a means to enhance my thought process…why should he care?_

I glance back to see tightly reigned in rage vibrating from Watson’s every cell as he continues.

“And should you try and stop me, you would be reminded, _quite forcibly,_ which of us is a soldier and which of us is a drug addict.” He spits out the last words as though they are tainted with poison.

We continue our row, Watson’s anger becoming less and less concealed until it finally bursts—

“Dear GOD ABOVE! You will hold yourself to a higher standard!” _What is all of this about? Is this because of the stories he publishes about me? To humanize me? Is that what “they” want? A mere, ordinary human, fraught with petty emotions? I can’t let the grit in the lens, the fly in the ointment- where have I heard these words before? - interfere with The Work, lest it proves to be too big of a distraction. Best to put those feelings away, back behind the wall where they belong, even in this…simulation? I’m finding it harder to gain control of the story in my head. Why is Watson insisting on talking so much? Shouldn’t we be focusing on the case? The case! Yes! Someone blew out his or her own brains…here? I check the wall behind me. Nothing._

A small boy –Billy – barging in with a telegram thankfully interrupts my thoughts.

I read through it quickly and implore Watson to join me. “It’s entirely possible Mary is in danger!” I tremor runs through me at the mention of her name, but I hurry on, anxious to finish the case and solve the mystery of the…bride?

 

Triumphantly, I rattle off my deductions to the room of conspirators and turn to see the bride walking towards me. Only I know it’s not the actual bride- Emilia Ricoletti is dead. Confidently, I stride towards Lady Carmichael. There’s one niggling thing in my brain- why enlist my help?

“Why engage me to prevent a murder you intended to commit?”

The bride flips up her veil at my words, but instead of Lady Carmichael’s face, it is the face of Moriarty as he mutters my words back to me.

“…it doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t make sense. Of course it doesn’t make sense, Sherlock. It’s not real!”

I gasp, close my eyes against the onslaught of data- _inexplicable!- a burst of pain in my chest at the mention of Mary’s name; John- Not Watson! John!- in the carriage, without his hat or mustache, in plaid shirtsleeves and jacket- it’s all too much, it doesn’t make sense, is it because it isn’t real?_

_John’s voice echoes my thoughts- “what the hell is going on?!”_

Moriarty continues, “is this silly enough for you yet? gothic enough? This is all in your mind. You’re dreaming”

My head swims. I am lying down now, surrounded by blurry faces, the sound of beeping close to my head. But no! I must find out. He- _she_!- must have died that day.

I’m digging now, frantic, desperate to find the corpse. There must be two. He must have died. But there’s only one, _only one_ …the rotted skull rises up, ghastly fingers reaching for me---

 

I gasp again, feeling the cold press of wet stone beneath my cheek. Still not awake. _Or alive?_ I push myself to my feet. It’s clear what I must do. I remember now, the television. _A doctor of sorts, explaining- I must die in this life to wake up in the other one. But which is it? Which is real? Is it the aeroplane? Surely a life destined for solitude, for exile, away from…everyone, from John…that can’t be the right one. But can it be this? A life stuck in the past, of ghosts and spectres, of women killing their husbands, a secret society lingering just out of reach? And him! Moriarty is dead, yet he haunts my every waking moment. How can this be real, if he is here? How can the other be real, for he is there as well? Mycroft’s phone call, the plane turned around because Moriarty is back and England needs me. But he’s dead!_

 

I glance around. I’m at the edge of the waterfall from the painting. I roll my eyes, so melodramatic.

“You’re in too deep, Sherlock. Too deep.”

If Moriarty is here, then surely this must be the wrong one. He’s right- I’m dreaming, I’m in too deep and I must escape.  
Only one way then.

 

I lift my arms and swan dive off the edge.


	9. Chapter 9

It’s sometime later and I am struggling to keep my eyes open. The blip of the ECG is reassuring in its steadiness, lulling me nearly to sleep. I’ve just finished the second of the Victorian ghost stories- a properly creepy one about a spectre bride come to finish off her husband. A shiver runs up my spine, though whether it’s due to the spookiness of the story’s setting, or simply from lack of self-care, I can’t be certain.

I stand and stretch my arms overhead, feeling the uncomfortable creak in my left shoulder. I roll my head from side to side and shake out my arms. As I set the book down on my chair, I notice the slight tremor has returned to my hand. I scowl and make my way closer to Sherlock’s bed. I pop the side of his bed down and settle my hip in line with his, carefully arranging myself around the wires. I take his pale hand into my lap and stroke the long fingers. His hand is cold, just as it had been a few… _days? weeks? I have no idea-_ ago. _No use thinking about that now. He’s here. He’s alive._ Mentally scolding myself, I flip his palm over and press my fingertips into his wrist, conjuring up the tiny flicker of hope again.

He has a pulse, and although it’s currently a bit weaker than I’d like, it’s real and it’s steady. Frowning, I turn his hand back over again carefully, studying it. His fingers really are cold, despite the warmth radiating from the side of his body where our legs are pressed together. I lean closer. His fingertips are tinged slightly blue. I look up then and notice his mouth is slightly open. I hover my hand in front of it, shifting up on the bed to place my other hand on his chest. His breathing is unsteady, labored. Just then, the pulse ox monitor starts chirping its warning. I sit up again, reaching for the call button, but he steadies and the monitor quiets. He sucks in a deep, shuddering breath and holds it for a beat.

“Sherlock?” I can hear the edge in my voice as I lean forward once more, gripping him lightly by the shoulders. He’s nearly panting now- flirting right on the edge of tipping off the monitor again. I shake his shoulders gently. “Sherlock…please…”

His eyes snap open and I’m light-headed with shock and relief. I sag down further into the mattress.

“Hey there,” I whisper, not trusting my voice. “Hey. Can you look at me? Oh my god, Sherlock…I-I’ve been so…we’re all so worried…” I trail off, noticing the rigidness of his body, my brain nearly short-circuiting as another wave of despair crashes over me. _No, no, no! Not another seizure!_ But he’s not seizing. His eyes are still staring at me, but they’re wide open, round with panic. He’s whimpering and trying to claw at the ECG leads, the bandage on his head. I suck in a breath to get my own panic under control before clamping my hands around his wrists.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, hey. Hey, it’s okay. Just breathe for me, okay? Can you just breathe? Nice and slow….” He continues thrashing, eyes boring straight through me, straining against my hands. He looks…terrified. His mouth snaps open and he’s gulping air, trying to work his mouth to speak, I think.

His monitors are wailing warnings now- his oxygen is dipping and his heart rate is steadily climbing. He’s got to get himself under control before he crashes.

I bring his left hand up in front of his chest and catch it with my own left hand so I can pin both of his wrists against him. I try not to think about how easy this is- he’s lost weight he didn’t have to spare while he’s been in here.

I tip my forehead against his and draw in a breath through my nose, exhaling softly against his cheek. “Sherlock” I whisper. “Can you hear me? You’re scaring me. Please calm down. It’s okay. You-there was- you had an…accident. You-you’re in hospital…but I promise you, we’re doing everything we can to take good care of you.” His eyes focus on mine, finally, and his body stills.

“Mary.” His voice is hoarse, barely audible.

“Mary?...Yes…yeah, okay mate. Okay. I’ll get Mary. Actually, I’m not sure if she’s here tonight, but I’ll get whoever is on…Are you in pain? What do you need?” I lean over him to push the call button, releasing his wrists. I’m babbling, clinging onto his consciousness desperately, terrified that he’ll slide away once more now that he’s only just bloody woken up. I reach my hand up hesitantly and stroke once down his cheek with my knuckles. Need to make sure he’s real. He shakes his head rapidly. “Ma-Mary”, he repeats, shifting on the bed and reaching his hands up again. He drops them weakly against his stomach.

“Ok, ok. I’ll get Mary. Slow deep breaths, okay? Okay, Sherlock? Stay…stay awake. Stay with me, now. That’s it. Ok, yeah….just like that.” I can’t keep the tremor out of my voice as I coach him. I’m dizzy- overcome with relief and worry, the ache in my chest so real I think I might need an ECG soon too.

I lean back, watching him carefully as his breathing settles. His eyes are still darting around the room frantically, and his body is tensed, but the monitors have quieted again, for now. He hasn’t looked at me, though, and something is… off. I don’t like the way he is coiled, his fight or flight response clearly kicked into high gear. I smash the call button again, muttering. Sherlock cringes, then pales, wrapping his arms around his abdomen and turning his head toward the door.

“Sherlock? Hey, are you okay?” I touch my forefinger lightly to his chin, turning it back towards me to try to get a good look at his face. He’s white as a ghost and covered in a fine sheen of sweat. “Oh Christ. Sherlock! Sherlock, look at me!” His eyes slide shut and his head falls against the pillow.

“John? What happened?” Mary appears in the doorway then, arms full of supplies. “I’m so sorry- I didn’t hear the alert- I stepped into the supply closet---what’s going on?”

I push my fingers against Sherlock’s neck as the monitors start beeping wildly.

“No pulse. Sherlock! We’re losing you!” I shout as I drop the head of his bed down. “Mary, call a code. Please!” I beg, desperate to save my best friend’s life. His monitor is beeping frantically now. I watch the monitor as the regular peaks switch to a chaotic rhythm on the screen. “Shit! He was awake. Awake! And then…he’s so pale…he was talking, but disoriented. He asked for you, Mary!” I start chest compressions as Mary grabs the bag off the wall to give him oxygen.

“John.” Her eyes are alert, but full of concern. “John, are you okay to do this?” I nod. I’m focused now, thankful that _Doctor Watson_ has stepped in and pushed _John_ out of the way.

The crash team comes charging in, quick and efficient. Mary confers with them briskly and soon I hear “Clear!” I lift my hands off Sherlock’s chest and take a step back as he arcs off the bed, following the paddles. A young nurse steps around me gracefully and takes over compressions once the shock has been administered.

“Push harder! Your rhythm is off!” I hover around the nurse, hands balled up at my sides. I feel _useless,_ just watching as my best friend _dies_ in front me.

She doesn’t turn to look at me, but says in a voice velvety smooth. “I’m a nurse, sir. I know what to do. Please step out of the way now, you are too close.”

I catch her double meaning, and step back, feeling thoroughly chastened.

Sherlock is shocked three times before his heart regains a normal rhythm. Snapping the side of the bed back up, the team quickly wheels his bed out of the room and into the hallway. Mary and the young nurse climb onto the sides of the bed to continue administering CPR on their way to the theatre.

I stumble after them, but veer sharply to the right once I reach the hallway. I crash into the door to the loo and fall to my knees before the toilet bowl, gagging violently. I sit back on my heels after a few minutes, trembling from head to toe, unable to stop the tears streaming down my face. I stand up shakily and make my way to the sink to clean up as best I can, but a sharp rap on the door makes me jump.

 “Errr…just a moment, please. Almost finished.”

 “Dr. Watson.” I groan (mostly) inwardly. Of all the people that I wouldn’t want to see moments after planting my face in a hospital toilet bowl and _weeping_ …Mycroft  Holmes definitely tops my list.

 “Not. _Now._ Mycroft.” I grit my teeth and glare at the door.

 A throat clears. “Dr. Watson, I arrived to my brother’s room a moment earlier to find it empty. Imagine my surprise. When I inquired at the nurse’s station, they informed me he had been taken to the operating theatre. They also told me of your estimated whereabouts and suggested that I – er- _check_ on you. Since it appears you are in no immediate danger, I will assume you wish that I _piss off._ I will be in the family waiting room. _”_ I hear the tapping of his umbrella as he turns and walks down the hall.

 I wait until the sound disappears completely before cracking open the door. I hesitate, not wanting to join Mycroft, but not willing to go back to Sherlock’s empty room to wait either. In the end, I pace the hallway until I feel self-conscious, then retreat to the opposite corner of the family room from Mycroft. We exchange glances, but don’t say a word.

 Hours pass. I fidget and pace, unable to stay still, unable to quiet my thoughts. My brain supplies a montage of memories until I’m ready to scream. Exhausted, I slump down in a chair and stare blearily at my hands in my lap. They’re trembling and I curl them into fists, then spread them open on my knees, wiping off the sweat. Curl, spread, wipe. Repeat.

 The door opens and I freeze. I can’t bear to look up.

 “Dr. Watson? Mr. Holmes?” I feel Mycroft stand and walk towards the person at the door. I shift my gaze up. A surgeon. A load roar fills my ears and I struggle to listen to the words I’m sure are coming, even though I want to scream and run and cover my ears like a primary school child. _We did everything we could…He really fought hard but…I’m so sorry…_

“Oh, thank god.” Mycroft’s voice cracks. I glance up at him, puzzled. I know they’ve never gotten along, but that seems a bit heartless, even for a Holmes. He quickly resumes his haughty air, though his eyes are bright. He sniffs, once. “Certainly Sherlock would say ‘ _God is a ludicrous fiction dreamt up by inadequates who abnegate all responsibility to an invisible magic friend’_. He smirks, but his eyes remain shiny.

 “Dr. Watson, would you like to see him? He’s sedated again, temporarily, but stable.”

 I stare, open-mouthed at the surgeon. “He’s- he’s okay? He made it?”

He shoots a glance at Mycroft before sliding a chair over to face me. He smiles patiently and I don’t even mind. Mycroft slips out.

“I found retroperitoneal bleeding when I went in, most likely triggered by the seizure the other day. I repaired the abdominal aorta. He coded on me again on the table and we nearly called him, but he came round. He’s a fighter. He must have something really good on this side to keep fighting for.” He gives me a pointed look.

I shake my head, staring just to the left of the surgeon’s head. He’s alive. He fought his way back to life _again._ I stand up on shaky legs and hold out my hand.

“Thank you, Doctor…?”

 The surgeon smiles and shakes my hand warmly. We’re nearly the same height, though he’s old enough to be my father. He has a calming presence, which I appreciate more than I’d care to admit right now.

 “Doctor Milverton. Call me Charles. Pleasure is all mine. Let me know if I can answer any further questions for you gentlemen.”

 After the door shuts behind him, I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes some very important deductions and hatches a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my dear god. I am so sorry for the long break between chapters. This chapter FOUGHT ME. And then my hard drive crashed and it's just been a month. But if you're reading this, thanks for sticking with this story. There are just four more chapters to go and I promise those will be updated much more quickly.

I blink again, hard, absolutely giddy with the sight before me. Not that it in itself is anything remarkable; an enormous screen takes up one whole wall, onto which doctored footage of Magnusson’s final moments are replaying on a loop. In foot-high letters above the video, the words TOP SECRET are emblazoned. I spin around in my chair to scoff at the floor-to-ceiling wall of glass behind me, onto which I can see the somewhat distorted words TOP SECRET reflected. I snort. Top secret indeed. 

 

But alas, it is not the absurdly terrible security of the British Government that is making me feel so wonderful. It is the fact that I, Sherlock Holmes, is  _ alive!  _ I am also, as it turns out, not being exiled and very much correct. I feel like shouting from the rooftops- it was all a dream! I turn to grin at Mycroft. Even his visage isn’t completely off-putting today. I’m just so — 

 

“GLAD TO BE ALIVE!” I sing. 

 

Mycroft gives me a very pointedly exasperated look but I can’t contain it. I’m suddenly aware of my phone, gripped in my hand like a lifeboat to a drowning man. I quickly type out a series of texts and tweets (I tweet now?? This is a glorious world!) before my phone is snatched out of my hand by Big Brother, government official and Fun Sponge. At the exasperated “Mr. Holmes!” both of our heads snap up. 

 

“Mr. Holmes”, Lady Smallwood continues, clearly addressing me. I resist the urge to stick out my tongue at Mycroft, snatching a biscuit to munch on loudly instead. 

 

“Moriarty is back. What do you plan to do about it?” 

 

_ Moriarty is back _ . Right. But that...that is impossible. Moriarty is dead. In fact, he told me so himself, in my very own living room. Of course, that was a delusional drug-induced hallucination, but I’m still nearly positive that most people do not survive when they paint their brains onto a rooftop. Since that is the impossible  _ -deleted. He’s dead- _ all I must do now is identify the improbable, for that must be the truth. Or in other words, now we wait. 

 

“What am I going to do about it?? I’m going to wait. I’m the world’s only consulting detective and the obvious target. The stage is set, all the players are in place. The only logical thing now is to wait and see the next move. The  _ posthumous  _ game is on! And oooh how I  _ love _ it!” 

 

With that, I swirl out of the room, flapping my coat behind me like a magnificent superhero. I do so love a great exit. 

 

I slide into a cab and immediately into my mind palace. I have work to do. If Moriarty is dead, then someone else must be orchestrating this entire plot. I need to find out who, but I know they will be impossible to find if I go searching. I also know that, above all else, Moriarty had been  _ interested _ , no-  _ obsessed- _ with me. All I have to do now is wait and he (or whomever he is living through now) will come to me. Like a spider in its web, like a predator stalking its prey, he will move closer and closer and I will be waiting for him. 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * 

In the days ( _ could be weeks. unimportant) _ following, we have more cases than ever before. John’s inbox is positively stuffed with them and clients are showing up at the door to 221b at all hours, often queueing for their turn in the chair to spew their meaningless drivel at me before getting to the juicy part. Mary and John seem to be nearby, all the time, but I hardly have time to notice. I can scarcely look up from my phone or laptop, now that there is finally something  _ interesting _ happening. Day after day, case after case, I deduce and research and connect and tweet. I continue to send out message after message, knowing full-well that the Moriarty network will have all of my technology flagged and followed. 

 

While I work, I find myself growing increasingly aware of a _something_ in the back of my mind, tickling and pestering until I try to focus on it, whereupon it immediately flits just out of reach. It nags me, it’s on the tip of my tongue, but I just can’t seem to put my finger on it. More worryingly, is the unavoidable sense of dread that accompanies it, as though something is coming.   

 

It’s sometime later, after an exhausting day of idiot-handling, that Lestrade texts me. ( _ Can’t  actually remember the last few days- all of it swirling into a foggy blur when I try to recall details- or even the current date. Must have deleted. Perhaps the transport needs more sleep. Irritating. Pedestrian).   _

 

**Got a good one, Sherlock. Right up your alley.**

 

A few minutes, or hours, later, I open my eyes (mind palace, still couldn’t figure out why the jellyfish was important) to find Graham sitting in the chair. The door flings open to reveal John sauntering in, a smile on his face that I don’t think I’ve seen in awhile.  _ Have I even seen John lately? Can’t remember. Something about a baby… ? _

 

The case Lestrade presents is fairly interesting, maybe a seven. I listen through the whole report, deducing as I go, eyes closed. Car seats made of vinyl- cheap vinyl, owner on a budget. Two different types of vinyl found. Body of a dead boy who was supposed to be in Tibet, found behind the wheel of the car in front of his house. Big explosion ( _ ala James...Shackles? Something...John made me watch his movies once. Dull _ ), but the body was already a week old when they found it after the explosion.  _ Oooh. Interesting.  _ John and Lestrade-  _ Greg _ \- accompany me to the dead boy’s house to comb for evidence. Condolences, terribly sorry,  _ boring _ . As I’m speaking though, that feeling happens again, but much more intense this time. Not deja-vu, exactly, but more of an intuition of sorts; data processed too quickly for the conscious mind to comprehend. I walk over to the small table. There’s something...off. On the table is a shrine of Margaret Thatcher; framed pictures, a figurine, but it’s the gap. Everything else is perfectly ordered and managed, but a large space remains. Oh.  _ Oh! A plaster bust… bust of Thatcher...the number six… Haven’t I...Haven’t we... I’ve solved this case already! Back when John was… around.  _ I frown at that thought. He was still around, wasn’t he? I can’t remember any more of that case. I glance around the room, feeling suddenly cold.  _ How the hell did I get to Mycroft’s office?  _  I pace in front of the massive desk anxiously. 

 

“Moriarty. Did he have any connections to Thatcher? Any interest with her?” 

 

I continue pacing, growing increasingly irritated with Mycroft, as he insists on being dull, droning on about the Koreans and pearls - _wait. Mmm? Never mind._ _Dull. Just get another one-_ instead of helping me. 

 

“There’s something important about this. I’m sure, maybe it’s Moriarty. Maybe it’s not. But something is coming—“

 

I cut myself off as the briefest flash of memory surfaces -  _ a bridge, the shiny reflection of metal, a knife  _ \- and then it’s gone. I grunt in frustration and storm out of Mycroft's office. 

 

I’m standing in a room filled with computers when I receive a call from Lestrade, just as anticipated. The next bust(s) - two this time, from the home of a Miss Orrie Harker- have been smashed. I know before Lestrade tells me that there was a struggle and Miss Harker was murdered, left in her front lawn as she tried to chase the thief. The busts were found further down the street, smashed under a streetlight. Lestrade sounds shocked that I know this information.  _ I am too. _ The information Craig had given me was that there had been six of these Thatcher busts made. These were number four and five. It’s obvious now what is happening. Whomever is stealing and breaking the busts are not doing it out of any sense of civil or social injustice. There is something inside of one of them that the suspect wants, and I have a feeling I know exactly what it is. I can’t help the satisfied grin that creeps over my face while I sit in the back of the cab.  _ Take that, Mycroft. Found the dumb pearl for you after all. It was simple, really. Too simple. Barely a four.  _

 

Fueled by adrenaline, the thrill of the chase and the excitement of being  _ right _ , I don’t feel any of the blows I sustain during my scuffle with the black-clad figure in the elaborate home of Mr. Jack Sandeford. Dramatic as ever, I smash the final bust to the tile floor, bending to triumphantly pick up the blasted pearl but. BUT. 

 

I stare blankly at the pile of rubble at my feet, then glance up at the man’s face in front of me. He looks just as confused as I feel, but also strangely smug. The item before me is a penknife... _ no. _ I pick it up gingerly and turn it over in my hand. It’s a memory stick with the initials AGRA.  _ Not the pearl. Not the murder weapon. Then why? It doesn’t make sense. _

 

I squeeze my eyes shut, rubbing my temples with my middle fingers.  _ Think. Think! Mary. John.  _ I touch my fingers to my knee lightly, remembering.  _ John, tossing an identical memory stick into the fire, John looking up at me from examining a dead body- a young man named Pietro, stabbed by his lover - with the saddest look I’ve ever seen. Breakast and the newspaper. “You weren’t my first, you know”. John Watson, seated on a bar stool, warm and loose from the alcohol, neck swiveling as men of all ages and stages of undress wandered around us, each one more handsome than the last. Even from across the table, I could see his pupils blown way out of proportion, could see the tip of his tongue as it darted out to lick his lips ---  _

 

I continue to sift through memories as if they’re on a movie reel, flicking through them so quickly it makes me dizzy. More and more evidence, making less and less sense:  _ recent cases- a drowned man with sand in his lungs, a woman who died of hypothermia in a sauna. The Mona Lisa, a horseshoe crab and a blue chair. John changing nappies, Mary enormously pregnant. A red balloon, a frozen turkey…  _

 

I clutch the sides of my head and grip my hair tightly, weaving my fingers into the curls.  _ What is happening?  _ I’m breathing heavily, spots swimming in my vision. Nothing makes sense...none of it makes sense. A familiar voice echoes the words back in my head…  _ it doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t make sense...of course it doesn’t make sense, Sherlock. Because it isn’t REAL!  _ With a gasp, I fling my eyes open.

 

It can’t be true...can it? I finger the memory stick held in my hand, an idea forming. Specifically an idea and a  _ plan.  _ If all goes well… but no. I can’t even begin to hope yet. Not enough data. I must get to work immediately. 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

It seems like no time at all before I find myself in a small room in Morocco, seated across a low table from Karim, playing ‘happy families’. I know Mary will walk in any minute and I also know that she will be shocked to see me. I must play along. John - I glance over to the corner where I now see him standing motionlessly, staring blankly at the floor - will tell Mary that he stuck a tracking device on the memory stick. The memory stick that she took off of me when I feigned unconsciousness after our “meeting” in a hidden room, tucked into the side of a cliff. The memory stick that is the life force and the murder weapon of Mary Morstan, all rolled up into one neatly disposable package. I know that both she -  _ oh there she is now, I hear her footsteps approaching, hear her pause every few seconds as she glances back over her shoulder _ \- and Ajay -  _ and here he comes, much heavier steps, thudding and determined, but slower  _ \- are desperate to keep it safe. I also know that, despite Mary’s pleas that they were a family, Ajay does not care for her and therefore, does not care to keep the information on the memory stick secure for her sake. He simply wishes for revenge. 

 

I hold out my hand for Mary’s gun, but instead of taking a shot at Ajay, I shoot at the bare bulb swinging from the ceiling, disorienting everyone. There’s a flurry of movement and then a flash of light as a train whistles past the window, illuminating the scene within. John, Mary and Ajay are all frozen, weapons drawn, pointing at one another in the dim light. I look around calmly, even though my mind is whirling. I edge slowly towards John, desperate to communicate my slightly altered plan, but knowing he will first try and argue. My only hope is to push Ajay just enough to pull the trigger. I look toward him, but falter in my bravado. His eyes are wide and he’s breathing heavily. He may not be the right one for the job, after all. I clear my throat, forcing Ajay’s gaze to track back to me, but just then, the door crashes open, revealing a Moroccan policeman whose weapon is already drawn. I take a step towards the three in the center of the room but two shots ring out and Ajay drops to the floor, mouth frozen as his last words die away with him. 

 

“It was the English woman.” 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

I stop abruptly, looking down over the edge of the bridge, but not seeing the water. Instead, my eyes track images and words as they flick past rapidly -  _ Thatcher busts, jumping off the floor and reassembling. The letters AGRA, melting away as flames lick the sides of the memory stick. Ammo. Amo. Amas. Amat.  Pietro and Beppo, holding hands. Hands brushing. Eyes catching. ‘John Watson, you keep me right’.  _ I smile slowly and type out a series of text messages, fingers flying over the keys. I’m still smiling as I walk through glass tunnels, sharks and fish of all kinds swimming around me, happily oblivious in their aquatic lives. 

 

I spot her as soon as I enter the main room, body turned towards the large wall aquarium, but head tilted in a way that tells me she’s attentively listening for my approach. 

 

“Your office said I’d find you here. They seemed to think you’d have a special interest in meeting me.” 

 

“You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?” She turns to face me as she says this and I notice almost gleefully the added weight of her handbag.  _ Excellent _ . 

 

I nod, rolling my eyes. “With good reason. I really am a very busy man. Would you mind cutting to the chase?” 

 

As if reading from a script, she continues on, ignoring me. 

 

“There was once a merchant in a famous market in Baghdad. I’m just like that merchant in the story. I thought I could outrun the inevitable. I’ve always been looking over my shoulder; always expecting to see the grim figure of … “

 

“... Death.” Perfectly on cue, Mary walks into the room. I give her a nod as she comes to stand next to me. 

 

I let my mind wander as they rehash the details of that fateful day, going over my plan in my mind. Mary’s brought her gun - tucked in the inside pocket of her jacket and unloaded, just as I requested. I knew Vivian would come armed and told Mary as much. I had assured Mary that I would switch the guns surreptitiously seconds before their scuffle. Attenuating to all strands of data, I should be able to anticipate and make the switch just before any shots are fired, leaving Vivian with an unloaded gun. 

 

I listen for the right moment, holding my breath. I hear footsteps approaching. Lestrade and his men, good. At precisely the right moment, I take a long step to my left, just as I hear the zip of a shot being fired and Mary’s shocked gasp.  _ Perfect.  _  I lunge forward and clasp Vivian’s wrists in my hands, twisting her around and pushing her up against the glass wall of the aquarium. She drops the gun and it clatters loudly to the cement floor. I kick it away, startling when I hear it come to a stop against something soft. I glance over my shoulder and freeze. John is slumped on the floor next to Mary, his mouth twisted in anguish and his eyes filled with absolute horror. He points at me with one shaking finger.

 

“Sherlock. What have you done?” 

 

I anticipated this reaction to the news of Mary’s death. I did not anticipate John being here to witness it. I stand frozen to the spot, searching my brain for something, anything, to fix this situation. Finally, I squeeze my eyes shut and cross my fingers, hoping beyond hope that I’ve guessed correctly, just one last time. 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A family meeting is called at the hospital and John fights his demons.

I take a sip of my lukewarm tea and set the styrofoam cup back on the long table that stretches out in front of me. My eyes flick around the room as one by one, each person gives their brief introduction. I know I’ve probably met all of them at some point, but the names and faces of all the nurses and doctors that have been involved in Sherlock’s care tend to blur together. Only a few stand out. I am eternally grateful for Mary and Janine, Sherlock’s two main nurses. They have been a major source of comfort during dark and lonely nights spent sitting next to Sherlock, watching his face intently, waiting for any flutter of his eyelashes, any twitch of his fingers. They remind me to eat and drink, often bringing me something they just “couldn’t finish” from their own lunch down in the cafeteria. Mary has been gone the last few days on a personal leave and I am surprised by how much I miss her soft voice and warm smile. _Maybe…_ I think, but shake my head sadly. If I thought my life was too chaotic to pursue a romantic interest before Sherlock ended up in hospital, I can only imagine what it will be like once he’s finally home and recovering. Plus, I don’t believe there’s any room in my heart or my head for anyone that is not tall, dark, mysterious and _handsome._ My chest aches. It’s ridiculous, but I miss him already, even though I’ve only been away less than fifteen minutes. I miss the solid weight of his fingers entwined in mine, the mechanical hiss of the ventilator and the soothing beep of his heart as it fills the room with its sound, evidence of the life still thrumming inside of him, stubborn and vibrant. I can’t wait to get this meeting finished and return to his side to brush the frizzy curls away from his eyes, adjust his position on the bed and resume stroking my thumb down the side of his silky-smooth hand.    

“Fred Porlock, Senior ICU doctor”. I glance at Dr. Porlock, sitting to my right. He’s a jittery man with dark brown hair that’s greying at the temples and yellowed nails that are currently wrapped around a mug of black coffee. Smoker. Divorced. I huff a breath out through my nose, the ghost of something that may have once been a laugh. Clearly Sherlock has been rubbing off on me.

“I am Dr. Anna Tartic, neurologist”. The petite woman seated across the table from me I’ve only met once, briefly. She is not Sherlock’s normal neurologist, as he is filling in at another hospital today. Her sharp eyes and curly black hair remind me too much of someone else and I look away quickly, down at my hands clenched against my jeans.

“Langdale Pike, cardiologist”. Dr. Pike is tall, broad-shouldered and bald. He’s approximately my age and his tanned face and hands lead me to believe he’s just returned from a relaxing holiday. He’s leaning back in his chair and chewing thoughtfully on his pen as he studies the other people seated around the table.

I follow his gaze and feel a twinge of sympathy for the elder Holmes brother. The man seated at this table is a far cry from the usual stoic aristocrat that kidnaps people in his sleek black cars without a second thought, that can threaten bodily harm with a smirk on his face and one eyebrow cocked in a permanent challenge. Now, his shoulders are slumped and there’s at least a days worth of stubble scattered about his chin. His hands are shaking from nicotine withdrawal and I can see the dark circles under his eyes even from here. I’m certain I don’t look any better. My head feels like it’s stuck inside a vice; the unrelenting throb behind my eyes the direct result of too much caffeine, too much stress and hardly any sleep. 

For two days, we’ve sat in silence, save sniffing and occasional footsteps as one of us shuffled to the loo. There’s nothing to say.

We haven’t even made eye contact since I’d stumbled back into Sherlock’s room 48 hours earlier, relief evident on my face as the tears flowed freely, still trembling from the momentary high after the news I’d received from Dr. Milverton. Mycroft had lifted his gaze from the bed and met mine with red, swollen eyes brimming with tears. Wordlessly, he’d handed me a tissue, and stood to drag the other chair in the room over to the opposite side of the bed. 

Now, he clears his throat, looking up but not fixing his posture. For some reason, this strikes me and I have to choke back a sudden sob, pretending to cough into my fist. Mycroft looks like an empty shell, slumped and worn, like a giant vacuum has come and sucked all of the sarcastic remarks and scathing glares right out of him. Last night, while nodding off in my chair, I’d heard the rustle of fabric as he’d shifted closer in his chair to Sherlock. He had spoken to him in a low murmur, half English and half French, possibly unaware of the dual-language as the words flowed freely from his lips. I had only caught a few words, but the choked sounds emitted at broken intervals told me everything I needed to know.

“Losing you … break ... cœur … My petit frère … tuer the dragon ...”

This man in front of me is not the stone-cold government official that I am used to, but the older brother that was forced to grow up too fast, constantly riddled with concern over his baby brother, that raven-haired boy who carelessly jumped and leapt and played pirates, who was a bit different than his peers and tended to rub them up the wrong way. This was the fiercely protective older brother that only wanted to shield his younger sibling from the world that tried to hurt him around every turn. This was the older brother that had to watch his brother jump to his death via grainy CCTV footage while wondering what he could’ve done differently and how it all went so wrong so fast. This is the man who knows he’s responsible for the disintegration of his little brother’s reputation and perhaps his life. He looks down at his fingertips, tracing idle circles on the table as he introduces himself.

“Mycroft Holmes, patient's elder brother and surrogate for decisions pertaining to his care. With me is Dr. John Watson, Sherlock’s flatmate and...friend”

Dr. Porlock raises his eyebrows. “Generally these meetings are reserved for family members, Mycroft.”

Mycroft fixes the doctor with his iciest stare. “You may call me _Mister Holmes_ and that’s exactly why _Dr. Watson stays_.”

I glance up, shocked, but quickly look away again to hide the corners of my mouth as they tug up in a small smile. I clear my throat.

“Right. So we were told we needed to meet to discuss Sherlock’s care? Care to elaborate?”

I venture to break the frigid silence, anxious to finish this meeting and return to my bedside post. I know how these meetings usually go. They’re supposed to be held regularly as a means of communication between the medical team and the family, to answer questions and discuss ongoing treatment. Often, family meetings only happen when there is a need for end-of-life decisions. Mycroft must have pulled some strings to assemble this large of a team to simply discuss his brother’s current treatment. No surprise there. 

Dr. Porlock nods and shuffles the papers in front of him.

“Yes, of course. Let’s get to it. Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes, please stop me if you find the need to clarify anything I bring up, or if you have any questions for my colleagues. We’re all here to support you today and want what is best for our patient.” He pauses to clear his throat, keeping his gaze even and professional.  “Even with the emergency surgery on Tuesday, Sherlock’s heart is struggling. Several ventricular arrhythmia events have been noted and evidence of Type one Brugada patterns have been noticed on his ECG. The blood tests performed yesterday and this morning showed hyperkalemia, hypertriglyceridemia, metabolic acidosis and imminent kidney failure. And his Glasgow score hasn’t been above a four in the last 48 hours. We are concerned—” 

I’m breathing hard, frozen in horror as he speaks. I cannot let this continue. I slam my hands on the table, abruptly cutting off the rest of his sentence.

“No. No! I saw him, he was awake and _speaking_ to me just...just before… only two days ago! He’s fine. That surgery took a lot out of him - of course his heart is still recovering. He’s been through a LOT the last few days and I’m sure he’s just resting. He needs rest, not to be poked with needles and disturbed every fifteen minutes by a new nurse. He doesn’t even like new people, that’s- that’s why he’s being so quiet!”  

I stop when I realize that I’ve raised my voice. I’m practically shouting, lifting up from my chair with the force of my words. Everyone at the table is staring at me, eyes kind and sympathetic, except Mycroft, who’s sporting a curious expression that I can’t decipher. If only Sherlock were here, I think wildly, he’d be able to figure out that look. Surely there’s something in that tightly-packed brain of his to interpret every last one of these Mycroft faces. A new thought occurs to me. 

“Mycroft! Maybe it’s- it’s his mind palace. Right? He’s in his mind palace… you know, where he goes when he’s trying to solve something. This is maybe like that. Maybe he has a case he’s working on and he just needs time...just a bit of time! Really, I’ve seen him do it. It’s quite amazing- it’s like a whole different world up there.”

I look pleadingly at Mycroft. The doctors at the table are quiet, watching us. One of them - I’ve already forgotten her name - leans forward to hand me a tissue. I bat it away, continuing to stare at Mycroft, willing, begging him to...what? Agree with me? Make the doctors stop saying such horrible things? Make Sherlock wake up? I don’t even know. Mycroft shakes his head sadly and looks down to study the cheap tabletop in front of him.

“What John is describing is simply a memory technique that my brother used to employ. Simply a memory technique, nothing more. No, I don’t think Sherlock has the brain power to perform elaborate deductions right now.” He looks up at me then, eyes hard and cold once again, shifting the mask of the iceman firmly back in place. I sit back in my seat, all the air escaping my lungs in a long breath. The room is silent for a few beats.

The younger doctor clears his throat. “With your permission, Mr. Holmes, we’d like to discuss our next steps. Does your brother have a will?”

That does it. I jump up so fast I knock my chair over and stand with my hands planted on the table. I’m breathing heavily, eyes darting frantically around the room, matching the staccato beat of my heart. It feels as though it might leap right out my chest and flop around on this terrible table in this terrible room of people. It would serve them right to see it laying out in the open like that. Perhaps then they could see with their own eyes evidence of what this conversation, this _pointless_ conversation, is doing to me. I can’t believe they could be sitting here, calmly speaking about wills and next steps, as though, as though…

I turn quickly and run out of the room.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

I run until my lungs are ready to burst and my scalp is tingling. I slump against the nearest wall and sink down, scraping my spine against the rough brick until the backs of my thighs touch the pavement, cold even through my jeans. I’m panting, stars crackling in my vision and every part of me aching. I feel strung out, like pulled taffy, stretched to the breaking point. I pull my knees up to my chest and lean my forehead on my knees, trying to focus on pulling air into my empty lungs. Time passes. I have no idea how long I sit like this, waiting for my breathing to regulate, waiting for the sharp pain in my chest to go away. My face feels sticky with dried tears, perspiration cooling along my forehead and under my arms. Eventually, I unfold myself to a standing position. I keep one hand on the wall for support and swivel my head around. I’ve tucked myself just inside an alley. As if in a trance, I step back towards the street and squint into the dusky air. A street lamp flickers to life over my head. I shiver, feeling gooseflesh stand up all along my bare arms.  Turning in a slow circle, I collect my bearings and begin walking to the only place I’ve ever called home.

Once there, I climb the seventeen steps and walk directly to the kitchen, not even bothering to take off my shoes. I open the cabinet over the sink and pull out a bottle of whiskey, letting the cabinet slam shut. Still moving slowly, trancelike, I make my way up the second set of stairs to my bedroom. I set the whiskey bottle on my desk and grab the duvet off of the bed to wrap around myself before sinking to the floor. Shaking from head to toe, I lean back against the bedframe and take a long drink, relishing in the burn of the amber liquid as it slides down my throat. For a long time, I simply sit and drink, staring blankly at the glow of the streetlights and the stretch of September sky that I can see out of my window, letting the alcohol seep into my muscles and calm the trembling force that feels like it might shake me apart. From here, I can imagine that I am somewhere else, far away from the bustle of London with all of its noises and hatefully _alive_ people. How is it fair that they go about their day while the most important person I’ve ever known is laying in a hospital bed? How can they be so wrapped up in their own lives while he struggles for his? How do they carry on with dinner and bedtime, having pointless arguments, making memories, making love? When I can bear the suffocation of my thoughts no longer, I stand up, swaying at the sudden movement, and stumble the three steps to my desk. Wrenching open the top drawer, I feel around blindly until my fingers close around their target; the cool metal handle of my Browning. Setting it gingerly on the floor next to the mostly empty bottle, I open the second drawer to search for the cardboard box of bullets I’d hidden there months ago, in an effort to save our walls from the future wrath of Sherlock’s boredom.

My knuckles clank against something cold and hard instead and I pull it out of the drawer, curious. It’s a crystal ashtray, property of Buckingham Palace. The memory of that day crashes into me like a tidal wave and I sink down under its weight, grateful for the wooden chair that catches me. I trace one finger around the smooth edge and pick it up, caressing the sparkling facets as I let my eyes slide closed, feeling warm with the memory. I can still hear our laughter, mingling together in the back of the cab when Sherlock pulled the stolen treasure out from under his jacket, eyes twinkling like a little boy’s.

_I had returned from Dublin early that particular morning in May and was surprised to find the flat quiet and dark. Evidence of Sherlock’s weekend alone was strewn about the flat and I’d sighed, telling myself I’d clean it all up after I’d had a proper shower and breakfast. From somewhere in the sitting room, Sherlock’s mobile had chimed and I’d shuffled things around on the desk - newspapers, a mostly full carton of Chinese takeaway, a folder from NSY with information from the case he’d solved while I’d been away and a playbill from “Terror by Night”- before I’d located the device. It was a text from Lestrade:_  

**_It WAS the victim. Can’t wait to hear how you figured that one out. I owe you one, Sherlock. Again._ **

_I’d smiled as I’d read it, the surge of pride and amazement I always felt when Sherlock solved a case flaring up deep inside my chest. I’d unlocked his phone with his pin (5646- I didn’t know why he bothered to have a lock code anymore since he would frequently have me respond to texts when he was too busy or lazy to answer them himself) and scrolled up to read the rest of the recent texts from Greg, wanting to catch up on the details of the case. Sherlock’s last response had been at 4:37am. I’d checked my watch- it had been just after 7. I’d been just about to click his phone off and go plug it into the charger for him when an earlier text caught my eye. It was from the previous Friday- the day I’d left for Dublin. Greg had simply texted_ **_Tell him, Sherlock._ ** _There was nothing before or after it to give me any context, not until the texts about the aluminum crutch case started up late Saturday night. Shrugging, I’d walked into his room and startled when I’d found him sprawled across his bed, sound asleep. His white bedsheet had been tangled around his hips and judging from the vast amount of pale skin showing, he hadn’t been wearing anything else. I’d felt the heat flare in my cheeks as I’d caught myself admiring the smooth expanse of his back, wondering what it would feel like to run my hand lightly over it. I’d imagined the gooseflesh that would rise up under my gentle touch and had realized with a start that I was unequivocally falling for my mad flatmate. In fact, the reason I’d returned early from Dublin was because Sarah and I had fought the entire time and had ended up breaking it off. I think I’d known all along that she wasn’t right for me and, standing there, staring at the beautiful man on the bed in front of me, I’d begun to understand why. Turning and shutting the door quietly behind me, I’d left Sherlock’s room and wandered up to my own bedroom, suddenly exhausted._

_It was several hours later that I’d heard Mrs. Hudson shout from the kitchen. I’d run down the stairs to find Sherlock, wrapped in that same damn sheet and standing over a very large and sweaty man who explained that he’d been having car trouble when he’d found a dead man laying in a field._

_With the usual chaos that was our life, I forgot all about the curious text from Lestrade until months later, when The Woman was finally gone (or so I thought). On a whim, Sherlock and I had stopped in an off license on the way home one night, giddy with adrenaline after solving another case, and bought a nice bottle of wine to split. During the short walk back to the flat, I’d planned out what I was going to say to Sherlock. I’d wanted to ask him about the text from Lestrade, and if my guess was correct, to let him know that his feelings were returned. I’d practically skipped up the steps, feeling light-hearted for the first time in months, but had stopped short just inside the door at the sound of a female voice. It was the voice of The Woman, very much alive and in Sherlock’s bed. Absolutely furious, I’d snatched the first thing I’d found- the ashtray- where it was sitting on the mantle, and raised it above my head, planning to throw it against the wall and cause a scene. I’d thought better about it, however, and had stormed up to my room instead, tossing it into my drawer, disgusted at myself and the memory of that day._

Trembling, I set the ashtray down now and reach down to pick up my gun. I settle it on the desk next to the ashtray and then lean down once more to retrieve the whiskey bottle. I line it up next to the other two items and shake my head in disgust. I am an army doctor. I fought in the Afghanistan war, and yet this is what I’ve been reduced to. I sink my head into my hands and I weep. I cry until I feel like I’ve been wrung dry- every ounce of moisture in my body sucked out, leaving me weak and deflated. I reach down into the bottom drawer and find the box of ammunition. With precise movements, I load one bullet and click the chamber shut.

I consider writing a note. That’s what people do, isn’t it? Leave a note? I squeeze my eyes shut as those exact words echo around my brain in a still-vivid memory.

With steady hands and dry eyes, I stare straight ahead at the wall above my desk and raise the gun to my mouth. I hesitate for a moment before wrapping my lips around the barrel. I’d envisioned this exact scenario so many times before, all alone in my empty bedsit, pain from a freshly healed bullet wound sharp in my shoulder, and that godforsaken cane resting against my knees, reminders of how weak and useless I’d become. And then Sherlock Holmes had showed up in my life, had figured me out within five minutes of our first meeting and had made me feel so alive; furious and amazed, exasperated and proud, every emotion under the sun. He lit up every room he walked into, dazzled it with his brilliance, paled every other living thing within the room, within the whole world. And he had chosen me as his flatmate, his confidant, and his friend. But I couldn’t protect him from his worst enemy. I’d failed him and he was gone. 

I slide my eyes shut.

_Goodbye, Sherlock._ I think. _I’m so sorry. I was too slow. If only you’d known…_

My mobile rings and I jump, cursing out loud. I slam my gun down and reach for the loud interruption, meaning to turn it off. It’s Mycroft. Without conscious thought, I swipe to unlock it and lift the phone to my ear.

“John, I think you’ll want to come back to the hospital right away.”

  



	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock receives a special gift. He has to go to hell before he can _Save John Watson_

I’ve been asleep for a long time. I can feel it when I open my eyes. My limbs feel stiff and slow, my brain feels heavy inside my head. I blink into the bright morning sun as I wait for John to answer the door. I hear footsteps approaching, but it’s not John who greets me. Molly, lips set in a tight line to match the tension in her slender shoulders as she opens the door, stepping outside drawing herself up to her full height. She stands directly in front of me, baby Rosie propped on her hip and gives me one of her looks where she speaks sentences with her eyes. Today, her eyes are whispering _I’m so sorry Sherlock_ . I shake my head, confused. _Where’s John?_ But her eyes and her mouth don’t answer me. She slides something into my hand and turns to go back inside. I stand for a long time, the weight of it heavy in my hand, despite its small size. Heavy, just like my heart feels in my chest. Too heavy, too tight. I tighten my fingers, turn on my heel and walk back home.

As the memory stick clicks into place in my laptop. I trace the letters written on the side with my eyes. I still don’t know what they represent. I don’t know why John wants me to have this. I hear Mary’s voice in my head - “Save him. Save John Watson.”

The screen fills with a large building, looming above an unremarkable stretch of pavement. I recognize the building right away; have walked past it many times. I know the coolness of the lab, the quiet of the morgue. I know how the dull metal railing feels under my palm as I make my way up the staircase to the rooftop. I know exactly how the view of the London skyline looks from the edge of the cement parapet. I know what it feels like to freefall past the windows, blank and unseeing as I pinwheel my arms and legs, my body fighting against the inevitable, my brain screaming at me _not to die, I don’t want to die._

As the video zooms in closer, I can make out the shape of a figure sprawled on the pavement, arms and legs at odd angles and a pool of blood at their head. Closer yet, and I can see dark curls, matted with the blood that trickles out in steady stream, nearly black against the light pavement. A crowd of people surrounds the figure and the focus moves even closer. I can hear ragged breathing as one person crouches down. John. His knees hit the pavement and I can hear his choked words, _‘he’s my friend. Let me through.’_ He reaches for my hand, holds it so gently. He’s slumped over, barely able to hold up his head. His shaking fingers probe at my wrist until another hand pulls them off. I want the still figure to move, roll over, stand up, reach for John’s hand again. I want him to yell, to tell John I’m okay - i _t was just a trick!_ \- but I can’t. The figure is rolled over and lifted. John sinks down even further - _oh god. Oh christ._  His - _my_ \- hand falls off the side of the stretcher and dangles helplessly. I stare at it before the stretcher is rushed away into the open doors of the hospital. I see someone hurry out to meet the stretcher. She’s wearing a long white coat and her brown ponytail flaps behind her. Molly. I see a flash of her face before she disappears behind the swinging doors. Her brown eyes are wide and filled with horror. There’s a flash of _something_ \- I can never read all of her expressions, quick as they flit through her features- before she straightens her spine and sets her shoulders. She’s a professional now.

The screen of my laptop fades to black, then lightens slowly, like the dawn breaking over the horizon. But nothing comes into focus on the screen. It’s just a blank expanse of white, fuzzy around the edges. After a moment, though, sounds filter in. The screen shakes slightly, like the tremors after an earthquake. I hear a choked sound. Someone is crying, their gasped sobs quiet and muffled. After a few moments, a shuddering inhale and a sniff. Then, a voice, low and scratchy, the choked back sobs still threatening to escape their careful control. _You once told me you weren’t a hero. There were times I didn’t even think you were human._ A memory flashes through my head then - John, eyes filled with rage as he glared at me. _You machine._ I flinched slightly. I had needed him to believe that. I had needed him to leave me alone so I could protect him. But those words coming out of his mouth hurt me more than I expected. I had disappointed him. Again. _Don’t die. Please don’t die._ His voice pleads. It’s unbearable that John is this sad, this broken, and I want to fix it. I wonder what could have caused him this much grief.

The screen changes once more, blurry shapes sharpening into focus. Steely blue eyes, rimmed in red, the skin beneath them dark and sagging with exhaustion. John’s eyes, millimeters away. I try to speak, to reach for him but the screen fades to black once more. I touch the screen with my fingertips. I long to feel his skin, instead of the cold blankness of the glass.

Though there is nothing but darkness on the screen now, I can hear sounds drifting in again. Voices, a steady mechanical beep and hiss. I concentrate steadily on the sound of one voice, female, unfamiliar to me. She is speaking softly but seriously, each word chosen carefully before it escapes her lips and hangs in the stillness. I sharpen my focus on the sound of her voice, blocking out all the other sounds. I can feel the urgency of her words, desperate for understanding. ‘ _...through hell. He can’t lose you, Sherlock. It would end him. I believe in you, Sherlock Holmes, and I believe in John Watson. He’s told me all about you, about your adventures together, about your cases. I read his blog. And I’ve listened as he’s re-told the stories to you, read them out loud late at night while he sits here, clutching your hand, never wavering in his belief. He talks about you constantly, I can see the way he feels about you. You’re his best friend, but if I may be so bold, I believe it’s more than that. I’ve seen a lot of patients in a coma, and I know that the best thing is to have your loved ones near. And he loves you. He loves you enough to grieve you, though he sits by your side. He loves you enough to let himself fall apart, to drift away to nothing, if it will somehow bring you back. He hasn’t left your side, Sherlock. Not unless we make him. He’s in the cafeteria now- I’ve sent him to get a cup of tea. He’ll be back soon. Sherlock, if you’re in there, if you can hear me, I need you to fight. Fight like hell, Sherlock, and come back to him. It’s the only way he’ll survive._

Colorful shapes blur past, but I can’t make out any of them. There are loud noises and the screen jerks and shakes violently, the focus drifting up until it’s filled with white again. But it’s different this time- it’s white tiles, a ceiling, antiseptic. _Hospital-_ my brain supplies the word as I stare at the screen, watching as the edges soften, the screen brightens, the details of the tiles fade into brilliant, bleached white. It grows impossibly brighter still, yet I can’t look away. I have the sensation of moving, being drawn towards the light. From far away, a shout. _Sherlock!_ I startle, watching as the image on the screen darkens once again, away from the blinding white. Again, it fades to black and I slump back against my chair. Thoughts are whizzing through my mind, too quickly to focus. _Mary. Hospital. John. He loves me._ _John_ _loves me. John loves_ _me_ _._ I turn the words over in my mind, weighing them, inspecting them. They feel foreign in my mind, but not unpleasant. His words, in his choked and grief-stricken voice, come back to me and settle thickly like a heavy blanket. ‘ _The best man and the wisest man...the most human, human being…’_

The screen remains silent and black for a long time. I stare at it, trying to make sense of all of this. It’s too much. After a long while, another voice, lower this time, drifts in. Male, middle aged, wavering as it tries to sound strong, powerful. It speaks in French, ‘ _slay the dragon’._ I can’t make out any more of his speech, the voice drifting away as though floating through the sea, pulled away by the current.

It’s silent again now. Silent and dark, all sounds and images gone. I hold my breath, waiting, fearful in anticipation. The screen is gone. I open my eyes as wide as I can, looking around. There is nothing but a dark void. I cannot feel my body- I’m suspended, floating, a speck of nothing in the blankness.

I’m suddenly aware of the desperate need of my lungs, starved and hungry for air, as though a vacuum has sucked all of the life away. _Foolish._ I think. I don’t need to breathe if I don’t have a body. I experiment, opening a hole where I remember my mouth used to be. A few sparkles dance in the distance and I reach out for them.

With a crash, I feel myself return to my body. I feel pain, everywhere. I feel cold. And I feel a desperate need for oxygen. I can’t open my eyes, but I open my mouth, sucking in a gulp of blessed air, tinged with something artificially clean.

In the space between one gasped breath and the next struggled inhale, long-forgotten memories and scenes tumble together, fighting for space in the chaos of my head, the walls of my carefully constructed mind palace reduced to nothing more than a pile of rubble as I try to pull in more oxygen.

 

_///A pebble beach, the sky_

_a gunmetal grey, barely discernible_

_from the colorless water lapping_

_at the horizon. A family picnic,_

_sandwiches and laughter,_

_running on the rocks\\\\\_

_///‘Redbeard!’_

_Pirate sword fights and_

_eyepatches. Running and_

_giggling. Victor. My best friends.\\\\\_

 

///Mycroft’s face, floating in mid-air,

speaking - reciting - in earnest

_Brother Mine,_

_The truth is rarely pure_

_and never simple.\\\\\_

 

There’s a pause then, a beat of silence and the urge to struggle lessens. I close my eyes to submit to the warm weight pulling me down, to allow the soft white light to envelop me once again, draw me in…

 

But a voice, a whispered plea from far away- it’s above me, around me, inside of me, it’s everywhere at once and I swivel my head to try and find him.

‘ _Please’._

 

_John_. It’s always John.

 

I try to open my eyes and a thousand flashes of light burst before me - orange and red and gold and white - dazzling and bright, painful in their fury. The explosion of light pushes me away, out of the warmth of the soft white haze where I was drifting and into something colder, harsher. The world around me blinks into view and I’m standing at the helm of a boat.

 

**Sherlock Holmes, pirate.**  

Always wanted to be one.

 

The boat tips and I tumble into the sea, head over feet until I reach the shore.

 

Locked away in the belly of the prison, I find her.

There’s nothing between us, no barrier to protect me.

I take up my violin and the melody fills the air.

It’s who i _was_ , but not who I _am_. The music’s different now...

 

I’m different now.

 

_I was too slow, too slow._

 

_Stupid._

 

_Who can love me?_

_It’s a short list._

 

Innocent people, dead.

 

 Can’t save them.  

_I’m not a hero, John._

 

I fall back... the dark is welcome. The black is thick, sticky, pulling at me, covering my face, my nose, my mouth. I sink, grateful for the long tendrils creeping over my body, tugging me

                                 down,

                                                                                     down,

_down_...

 

**Sherlock**!

_John_.

 

I hear him. He’s calling my name.

 

I’ll find him.

 

I can save him.

 

_I love him._

The darkness of the pit is all-encompassing. My fingers grope around the slick walls, my legs kicking against the dark water, barely discernible from the suffocating darkness everywhere else. I feel his skin brush mine, the tips of his freezing fingers. I grab and pull him up, hold him close against my body. Together we start our ascent. It’s slow and agonising. My hands ache. My head throbs. My lungs burn. I’m breathing hard, but I don’t let go of John. I’ll never let go. The walls close in, our escape is growing smaller, ever smaller. I push on. I fight. I will fight for John until my dying breath, until my legs stop moving, until my heart stops beating.

                                                  up

                                                                                           up

_up_

_UP..._

     

I can see the sky- it’s white and bright.

_Familiar_.

 

We reach the surface together, break the barrier that was between us and life. The walls fall away, and the darkness returns but it’s softer now, filled with the steady sound of John’s breaths leaving his lips, again and again. I hold him close. He whispers in my ear. _It’s time._

 

With a deep breath, I open my eyes and find John.

**_My John._ **

Steely blue eyes, fixed on me, filled with tears.  

Grief.

Disbelief.

**_Love_**.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The brilliantly talented sweetheart **Phrixi** made this beautiful piece of art for this chapter. I’m in awe. There aren’t enough adjectives in the world to describe how I feel about this. Seriously. Go gaze at this magnificence. 
> 
>  
> 
> [ The Truth is Rarely Pure and Never Simple by Phrixi ](https://phrixi.deviantart.com/art/The-Truth-Is-Rarely-Pure-and-Never-Simple-742905112)


	13. Chapter 13

It’s not until I stumble out of the elevator at the hospital that I realize I am still clutching the stolen Palace property in my hands. I try to stifle a giggle. _Well, I am here to see the Queen!_ _In fact, he just called me himself!_ I trip over a cord that’s stretched across the hallway and fling my hands out to catch myself on a nearby counter. A nurse looks up sharply when the ashtray clanks against the counter, eyeing me suspiciously. 

 

“Sir? Are you alright?” She narrows her eyes slightly when I nod. At least I think I nod. “Are you drunk? Do you know where you are? You were just talking about the Queen...” 

 

She walks around the counter, hands out to steady me, with a practiced look on her face. She’s used to dealing with drunks and hysterics. Right now, I might be both. 

 

Out of the corner of my eye as I struggle to right myself, I see a hand clap down on her shoulder. Mycroft’s voice purrs in her ear and she slinks away, turning her chair pointedly away from us as she sits down. Mycroft grasps me by the elbow and steers me towards Sherlock’s room. His door is shut. Mycroft’s steady hand deposits me rather unceremoniously into a chair outside of the door, before he disappears briefly, returning with a large styrofoam cup of coffee. I shake my head, the smell of the strong brew making me nauseous. My eyes water and I take a deep breath to steady myself. I need to know why he called me. As if reading my mind, he settles his hand on my shoulder and leans down. 

 

“John…” He takes a deep breath and I see, despite the bravado, that his eyes are shimmering. 

 

Just then, the door to Sherlock’s room opens and his parents shuffle out. They glance at us briefly before turning towards the family waiting room. I glare at the door to the waiting room hatefully, the memory of the hours I spent pacing that room, sick with worry over Sherlock’s surgery still too fresh in my mind. Mr. Holmes’ arm is around his wife and their heads are bent together, shoulders hitching with quiet sobs. I turn to Mycroft with wild questioning eyes, struggling to stand up from my chair. He pushes me back down easily. 

 

“John, the decision was made to remove life support. Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted to be kept alive with machines and, as you heard in the meeting, his prognosis isn’t good.” 

 

The irony of this statement hits me and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I might be doing both, I feel so little control over my body. I can still see the ugly words as they hung in the air over the lab bench in Bart’s before I stormed out, turning my back on the most human being I’d ever known. 

 

“You  _ machine.” _

 

I jump to my feet and run at the door, practically breaking it down in my sudden need to see him. I need to touch him, to know that he’s still here for at least a little longer. I need to say goodbye. I need to tell him all the things I always wanted to say, but couldn’t. I couldn’t ever find the words and now it’s too late. 

 

I crash into the familiar room and lurch forward to clutch at his thin shoulders. I try to tell him then, years worth of words catching in my throat. I hear a terrible sound from somewhere, guttural and deeply painful. My head whips around, searching for the source of such a heartbreaking sound before I realize that it is coming from my own mouth. My fists clench and I shake them up at the ceiling before letting them fall onto Sherlock’s chest. My movements feel stuttered, like I’m in slow motion, but time is speeding by. 

 

“Sherlock. Sherlock! Wake up! Please … don’t do this. This isn’t a game … it was never a game. Don’t you see? The game is off- it’s off now Sherlock! Wake up! WAKE UP, DAMNIT!” 

 

I feel myself flinging backwards, realizing belatedly that someone has grabbed me around the waist and is dragging me off of Sherlock’s bed where I have somehow climbed up to straddle his chest. My last words die in my throat and I spin around to see a short, balding man with glasses and terrible teeth. He backs away from me, breathing hard and holding his hands up in a protective gesture. I realize he’s speaking but I can’t hear any of his words. All I hear is a loud roar, filling my ears and traveling down to fill up my entire body with its buzzing and humming.  _ I’m like a balloon _ , I think, _ filled with bees _ .  _ Once I’m full of them, maybe I’ll just fly away _ . I stare at the vile, disgusting coagulation of evil before me as he methodically starts unhooking and switching off machines. I have to stop him- he’s going to kill Sherlock. 

 

I take a deep breath and clench my fists, realizing my right one is still wrapped around that bloody ashtray. For the second time, I want to fling it against the wall, watch as it shatters into thousands of shards. It glints dangerously in the fluorescent lights when I hold it up to my face. I grin and feel a hand on my back. A nurse is trying to push me somewhere, make me leave. She must be a threat too. I flail around in a panic. 

 

“No! I can’t leave. I can’t leave him- he’ll die! That...that  _ murderer _ is going to kill him. I can’t let him do that. I swore--I swore I’d protect him.” I’m sobbing now, tears and snot dripping down my face, arms dangling limply at my sides. The ashtray slides out of my grasp and bounces off the tile floor, then rolls under Sherlock’s bed. 

 

The nurse presses her lips together and glances to Dr. Smith who is standing by the bed watching us. He shakes his head.

 

She plants herself right in front of me, staring at my face until I lift my eyes to meet her gaze. She hands me a tissue from Sherlock’s side table. I grip it tightly, watching with detached fascination as my knuckles turn white. I can feel my fingernails cutting into my palm. She speaks firmly, but with a gentleness that I know must come from years of practice. I remember vaguely that I too used to have a special voice I used with patients when I needed to convey calm. That life seems like a million years ago. 

 

“Doctor Watson, I know this is difficult, but I really need you to compose yourself. If you continue to threaten the staff in the room, you will be removed and possibly even arrested. We’d like to give you a chance to say goodbye. Why don’t you step outside the room for a minute? We can wait to continue until you return, if you’d like.” 

 

Beyond ashamed, I lower my head and walk out of the room. I don’t look around for Mycroft or the other family members, but find the cup of coffee from Mycroft and take several large gulps, leaning my cheek against the cold metal door frame. I’m a soldier. I’ve looked death in the eyes many times before. I can do this, I can  _ say goodbye _ and then I can go home and forget that I ever existed. A world without Sherlock Holmes in it is no place for me. If I am no longer his blogger, flatmate, friend...what even am I? Nothing but a lost and wounded ex-soldier, pathetic and small, a little scrap of ordinariness. I drag my hands down my face and gulp the rest of the cold coffee. With a final deep breath, I turn on my heel and walk back into the room, feeling calm and collected for the first time in a long time. 

 

Crawling on my hands and knees, I find the ashtray under the bed and set it gently on the bed next to Sherlock’s hand. I settle his fingers over it and reach up to stroke his cheek one last time. His stubble is coarse against my palm and his cheeks are sunken and pale. I trace my thumb over his nearly translucent eyelids and once down his nose. My breath hitches. I need to make this quick. There is just one thing, one very important thing, that I desperately need him to know. 

 

I lean down to whisper in his ear. 

 

“I’m so sorry I was too late, Sherlock. I...I love you. I’m an idiot.”

 

I straighten up, brushing my hand quickly over my eyes and nod to Dr. Smith, who has tucked himself into a corner, eyes politely averted. He answers my nod and walks back to the monitors, flipping a few switches before quietly stepping to the door. 

 

“Take all the time you need.” 

 

I stop him, holding up my hand. 

 

“The vent. Could we remove it? I need to see his whole face once more, just...as I remember it.” 

 

He hesitates. 

 

“Once we remove it, understand, it’ll be quick.” 

 

I nod again. I understand. Sherlock hasn’t taken a breath on his own in days. Dr. Smith makes quick work of it then, sliding out the tube in one practiced movement and turning to discard it. I watch him until he’s at the door. A sudden sound makes us both turn our heads towards the bed. I look back at the doctor to see if he heard it too. He nods. 

 

“That’s common, just before...it’s the body’s natural reaction.” He trails off then, still looking uncertainly at the bed.

 

I squeeze my eyes shut and rest my lips against Sherlock’s forehead. I can’t sit here and listen to him die. I have to go. I straighten my shoulders, glancing down for one more look, wanting to sear the memory of his face into my brain, my heart breaking open in my chest. Painful as it is, I want my last thoughts to be of ridiculously high cheekbones and long eyelashes, pale skin and dark ringlets, perfectly straight nose and Cupid’s bow lips. I memorize it all, down to the last speck of auburn in his sparse facial hair. 

 

I slide my eyes up his face once more and blink, not comprehending. A stormy sea greets me. Blue, green, grey. I shake my head. Simply biology, the body’s final moments as it switches off all systems. I lean forward to close his lids, the idea of those beautiful eyes staying open as he slips away… I shudder at the thought, my hand hovering in midair. 

 

These are not the eyes of a man in his final moments. He’s blinking quickly, moisture trickling out of the corners. Eyes that have haunted me in my sleep, that have teased me so many times into believing he’s coming back to us are currently fixed on mine. As I stare, motionless, not daring to even breathe, I feel his fingers tighten where they are weaved between my own. I close my eyes, disbelieving. This can’t be real. Maybe I’m already dead. Maybe I passed out. Maybe…

 

But then I hear a crackle of sound, like air rushing through rusty pipes. I hear it again, a sharp intake, a gasping wheeze of breath and I look up to see Sherlock’s lips moving. I lean in as he whispers a single word. 

 

“John.” 

 

I don’t dare to believe that this is what it looks like. I’ve heard stories of one last moment of clarity before people slip away. I simply can’t bear to watch. I lay my head down on my arms, clutching his hand in mine, and the bed shakes with my sobs. It’s too cruel, this last teasing glimpse of what is being taken too soon, too fast. I hear the door open and shut behind me. It’s silent in the room, except for my sniffles. 

 

After a few moments, I lift my head and wipe tears from my eyes as I stare at Sherlock’s face. His lips move once more and I hear his voice, the most beautiful sound, creaky from disuse and swollen from the tubes, but absolutely, one hundred percent his voice. 

 

“Idiot” His mouth quirks up on one side and he blinks, tears spilling over his cheeks. I feel faint and stare at him, open-mouthed. I feel like I’ve seen a ghost. I feel like it’s Christmas morning. I look around wildly for Dr. Smith or perhaps a camera crew, waiting to yell that I’ve been pranked, that the real Sherlock died hours ago and this is simply a body double.  _ Maybe he has a twin I didn’t know about… _ I think maniacally. 

 

The maybe-Sherlock-twin lying on the bed sucks in another breath. He points at the oxygen mask hanging above him. I command my limbs to move and grasp at it with shaking fingers, arms...hell, my whole body is shaking with shock. It takes three tries before I can grab it and settle it on his face. He breathes deeply, the moisture from his breath fogging up the mask. My knees give out and I sink down onto the edge of his mattress. 

 

“Oh...my...god” I choke out, covering my face with my hands. I dig my knuckles into my eye sockets and then look up again quickly. He’s still there, breathing quietly into the mask and studying me with red-rimmed eyes. “Oh my god. You’re...you’re okay??” 

 

He shakes his head, making a noise that sounds almost like a chuckle before coughing drily. I rush to grab the cup of water off the table and slide the mask up, holding the cup to his lips, still vibrating so hard I nearly spill it down his front. He takes a cautious sip, then another longer one, humming in his throat. 

 

“Not okay” He croaks, “But alive. And up here” He raises a finger and points weakly in the direction of his head. “I’ve still got it.” 

 

I continue to stare at him in shock until he squeezes my fingers again. He slides his eyes shut and I let out a whimper. Despite what he said, this must be it. I wonder if I should remove his oxygen mask. Surely that will only prolong the agony. His eyes spring back open. 

 

“No, no. I’m okay!” He rasps out under the mask, eyelids heavy with exhaustion but beneath them, his gaze is piercing and intense. He forces his eyes wide open. “See? Oh, come here.” 

 

I let out a strangled sob and inch closer, still watching him carefully as though he’ll slip away if I so much as blink. Suddenly, it’s too much. I cover the rest of the distance and rest my forehead against his, breathing him in, even though his skin smells like antiseptic and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m stealing seconds from death. I’m shaking profusely now, shock and relief warring inside of me, making me weak. I bring our joined hands between us and kiss the back of his hand around his port, then each of his knuckles, greedy for him, soaking up every precious minute that he’s here, blinking and speaking and  _ aliveohmygodhe’salive.  _

 

“Oh my god, Sherlock. I thought- I thought I’d lost you.  _ Christ _ . Do you have any idea- any idea at all how...? It’s been...weeks.” My voice catches and a new wave of tears washes over me, splashing onto his cheeks too as they fall. He pulls our hands down and tips his chin up, grunting in annoyance when my nose bumps into the oxygen mask. I pull back and slide the offending mask down and let it dangle off his chin. And then I’m kissing him, lips covered in tears, slippery and salty. 

 

At a sound from the doorway, we startle and pull apart. His head drops back weakly onto his pillow as I turn around to see his parents, Mycroft, and what seems like half the hospital staff crowding around the door. Every last one of them is crying, hands over gaping mouths as they stare in shock. Someone breaks the silence with a  _ whoop _ ! and then they’re all hovering around the bed, hugging and kissing Sherlock, patting his cheek, and asking a thousand questions. The nurses trail off with smiles still on their faces after hooking him back up to a few necessary monitors. 

 

I step back to allow his family their space, but Sherlock reaches for my hand through the throng. He winks at me and mouths “stay”. I nod, wiping my face with my free hand, unable to stop the ridiculous grin from spreading, or the tears from streaming. Of course I’ll stay. We’ve been miraculously given a second chance and I don’t intend to waste a single second of it anywhere but at his side. I squeeze his hand again, still amazed when he squeezes back. I cannot even comprehend the depth of my love for this man, and I know that our very souls are connected in a way that simply can’t be understood. I also know with certainty that somehow this madman fought back to life in order to save mine. If it takes the rest of my life, I vow to repay that debt to him. 

 

_ Sherlock Holmes lives means John Watson lives. _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it!! This is the longest fic I've ever posted and it has been a wonderful experience. Thank you to everyone who stuck with it, who reblogged on tumblr, who gave kudos and commented, or just quietly read along. I see you and I appreciate you. Every kudos and comment had me squealing with delight and was the encouragement I needed to keep pushing on, through hours of research and frustrated keyboard smashing and my hard drive crashing and breaking my own heart over and over again. This was a great experience and I'm proud of my final result. Thanks again for joining me on the ride! <3 <3 - L.C
> 
> Find me on Tumblr if you want to scream more about theories or these two idiots in love <3

**Author's Note:**

> The brilliantly talented sweetheart Phrixi made this beautiful piece of art for chapter 12. I’m in awe. There aren’t enough adjectives in the world to describe how I feel about this. Seriously. Go gaze at this magnificence. 
> 
>  
> 
> The Truth is Rarely Pure and Never Simple by Phrixi 


End file.
